


Nova

by Sherwings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Drama, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Night Terrors, Past Child Abuse, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwings/pseuds/Sherwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'There are many causes that can predispose a person to night terrors, but given the mysterious and enigmatic nature of his friend...John wonders what could’ve ultimately triggered Sherlock Holmes to experience a night terror?'</p><p>It has been several months since Sherlock's return, and less time since John moved back into 221b. Whatever normality that has returned between the two men is strained with the acceptance of their newest case, and Sherlock soon begins exhibiting a kind of distress and instability John has never seen him experience before. John is worried, and not for that reason alone; Sherlock is also having night terrors.<br/>With the trauma, tension surging, unresolved issues and pain both past and present...will Sherlock and John be able to heal the wounds in their relationship? Not to mention their own personal wounds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! :) So this is a fic I wrote, my first completed one (be kind! ;P), as a part of a Secret Santa on the BBC Sherlock fan forum. This, is the result of the prompt I got! Which was; 'A case fic, with lots of action, violence, drama, angst, feels.  
> John & Sherlock heavy on the bromance with hints of romance/sexual tension.' The only thing that I didn't really include in the story was the hints of romance/sexual tension, however there is lots of the other stuff! :)  
> For several reasons, this fan fiction is quite significant for me and I hope those who read it enjoy it. :)
> 
> I don't own BBC Sherlock. All credit goes towards the awesome creators of the series! :)
> 
> WARNING; As I have tagged, there are mentions of past child abuse in this story. However, there are no graphic depictions. Nor is there any explicit violence. In spite of that though, if talk of child abuse of any kind (or the emotional trauma associated with that) could be a trigger for you, I recommend not reading this story.

           


 

A scream. A terrified, excruciating scream of agony abruptly wakes John from an uneasy sleep. There is something about the case Sherlock accepted today that feels...off. Well, not really the case itself, but something about Sherlock has felt off to John ever since they arrived back at 221b from the crime scene several hours ago.

“What the...” For a brief, sleepy second he wonders if that scream came from him (nightmares wouldn’t be a new occurrence) or if he imagined it.

Just then, another scream reverberates within the flat.

John leaps out of his bed within seconds and immediately reaches for his gun; encased inside the drawer of John’s bedside table. He ignores the fact that he is in nothing but his pants and rushes out of his bedroom. His heart is pounding hard with fear and worry. However, out of sheer instinct he initiated a calm and steady soldier’s stance at the prospect of danger ( _maybe someone has broken in?_ ) and the sound of his best-friend clearly in distress.

There is no mistaken that voice he heard....Sherlock. John has _never_ heard him scream like that before.

John descends the stairs as quickly as he can – his mind vigilant, eyes and ears fully alert, listening and watching intently for any other unusual sounds or noises – without risking alerting a possible intruder.

He reaches the door leading into the kitchen and pauses in front of it; he gives the room (the table a complete mess piled with the remains of an experiment of Sherlock’s from this morning, there is a layer of crusted... _something_ covering one end of the kitchen table than doubles as Sherlock’s personal laboratory, just one of the many realities of living with the mad, brilliant genius John has learned to accept; though he of course still gets frequently annoyed, as well as routinely amazed) a cursory once over before deciding it’s clear.

After deciding the living room (also a _delightful_ example of chaos that John is honestly grateful to call home) is also clear, John tightens his grip on the gun and turns to head in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

_Bang!_

Sherlock’s bedroom door is suddenly flung open and out strides the man himself.

“Sherlock! What the hell happened? Are you okay?” John’s relief – still tinged with worry – at seeing his friend unhurt is short-lived however as the man pushes past John as though he wasn’t even there.

John ignores that for the time being and swiftly runs into Sherlock’s room; holding up his gun in a traditional stance. There’s...Nothing. John relaxes his grip, confusion quickly taking over. _Nothing...then why did he –_

John’s thought is interrupted as a loud bang originates from the direction of the living room.

He swiftly heads back the way he came.

“Sherlock! What the _hell_ is going on?” John calls out loudly, as he reaches the living room via the open sliding doors of the kitchen.

Sherlock, wearing nothing besides a pair of inside-out grey pyjama bottoms, is standing beside the now upturned living room table; steadfastly ignoring John.

It’s dark, so John can’t see Sherlock’s face. All he has to go on is the horrible scream – it most definitely was Sherlock, had to be – he heard before, which John can’t see any obvious reason for.

“Do you mind telling me why you screamed and why you’re tearing apart the flat at _three_ in the morning?” The latter is nothing unusual, the former is. John is mildly irritated, but there is something not quite right here that has him feeling more concerned than bothered. _Did Sherlock have a nightmare? Why is he ignoring me like this?_ Again, this is not unusual, but that feeling of something being off – though different now – is still present.

Sherlock gives no indication that he even heard John. All John can hear are the twin sounds of his breathing and Sherlock’s...which, now that John is listening, sounds awfully rapid.

“...Sherlock?” John says quietly.

Sherlock turns and walks unsteadily towards the sofa. He bends down and tightly grips the edge of the low table in front of it.

Sensing what Sherlock is about to do, John rushes forward and grabs Sherlock’s arm (not too tightly) in an attempt to stop him.

The second John’s hand touches Sherlock, the latter spins around and punches John firmly in the chin.

“Fuck!” John swears loudly. _Ow!_ The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he staggers backwards in shock from the much unexpected blow. He can’t tell – too dark – but Sherlock appears to be staring past him, saying nothing. “Why did-” John starts to speak but abruptly stops as something registers to him....when John touched Sherlock’s skin, it was extremely sweaty and hot, and the man was ferociously shaking.

_Oh._

John disregards the ache and pain coming from his jaw and mouth and reaches behind him to flip on the light switch. As light washes away the darkness of the room John immediately looks at Sherlock. His concern triples as he takes in his friend’s appearance and observes the symptoms; _screaming,_ _eyes wide and alert, though unfocused from his surroundings, rapid breathing and most likely an elevated pulse_ (John won’t risk touching him again to be sure, unless necessary) _, violent reaction to being touched, autonomic arousal, he doesn’t appear to know who I am._

John knows what this is, has experienced this himself though not for a long time; night terror. Why would Sherlock be having a night terror? The idea of Sherlock trapped in this terror is frightening and baffling to John; he can’t shake the growing feeling that this is somehow related to their new case. Only twice before has John ever seen Sherlock look this afraid, the first was during the Baskerville case, the second was eight months ago when Sherlock returned 3 years after his supposed “death” and John refused to move back in with him to Baker Street (at the time John had been living in the flat he and Mary shared, his wife. She had died the year before) and said he never wanted to see him again (John didn’t really mean that even then, he was just so...so angry at the time). It certainly didn’t help that when Sherlock came back, he initially acted like nothing was wrong... _nothing!_ Oh let’s just go back to normal...not bloody likely. Two months later John started speaking to Sherlock again, and two weeks later John moved back to Baker Street; the only place that has ever truly felt like home to him.

John knows that has more to do with his flat _mate_ than the flat itself. He also knows even though Sherlock and John have their good days, occasionally there will be times when contention reaches a high crescendo. Just like before. Except now there is additional tension and uncertainty that didn’t used to be there.

However, those two fears were very different compared to what John is seeing now, which is significantly more intense; the blinding fear of one caught in a night terror. The state Sherlock is in now is so vastly different compared to his normal (a part of John scoffs inwardly with a fond smile at the word ‘normal’) demeanour it’s almost surreal.

There is very little John can do, except try to be calm, wait for it to pass (night terrors in adults don’t typically last longer than a few minutes) and make sure the bloody man doesn’t injure himself.

“Sherlock, it’s ok. It’s me, it’s John. You’re going to be alright. I’m here and I won’t harm you.” John speaks in the calmest voice he can; his heart still pounding from the worry and intensity of the situation. He slowly lowers his gun onto the end table behind him and holds out his hand in a comforting gesture.

He knows Sherlock can’t hear him and likely isn’t even aware of what’s going on, but John speaks anyway in an attempt to settle his fear, and to keep Sherlock from doing anything stupid that could potentially harm himself or John.

Sherlock raises his arms up high and grips the sides of his head tightly; his breathing still rapid. Again, he gives no indication he even heard John.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. I...promise.” John feels a lump form in his throat and his words come out shakily as old guilt and pain roils in his stomach; reminding him of how he felt after Sherlock...fell. “Sherlock, I’m your friend, I’m here.” John takes a cautious step forward.

Sherlock drops his hands and looks around the room frantically, his eyes never once settling on John. His mouth is partly open and the breath leaving him is coming out in quick, wheezing gasps.

John watches (making sure his body is well covering the view of the gun), feeling completely helpless as he continues to murmur comforting words.

With one arm Sherlock tightly hugs his stomach, with the other he appears to be reaching desperately for something. John can faintly hear pained whimpers coming from his friend; he feels a deep pang of sympathy for the distress his friend is currently under.

Sherlock finally moves to gaze at John. Though John is doubtful Sherlock is actually looking at him. Dozens of droplets of sweat are beading on his friend’s forehead, his pale chest is also covered in high amounts of sweat, and kaleidoscope eyes are filled with such strong emotion beyond the realm of unusual for Sherlock, and his entire body is continuing to tremble.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” John repeats. “You’re safe.” In any other situation, John would feel odd saying those two words to Sherlock in that particular tone of voice. In fact, John feels with absolutely certainty that if he were saying these things to Sherlock while the man was fully himself, it would earn him an infamous look and frown. But right now, even if Sherlock is currently unable to understand him, John needs to help him...or at least try.

“Wh-d-nguh-thg...” Sherlock begins muttering a string of nonsensical words and syllables as he continues to stare at John with glazed over eyes.

John feels a strong urge to take the quivering man in his arms and hold him close, but he resists it and instead tries to smile reassuringly.

John sighs deeply with relief when he notices that Sherlock’s breathing is slowly returning to normal, the thudding vein in this taut neck less pronounced as his pulse slows down. The look in his eyes is changing, slowly.

Feeling a bit more confident he won’t receive another punch to the chin, John slowly walks forward and gently wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. The tall man still doesn’t seem to be truly aware of John, but there is no indication that Sherlock will be lashing out any time soon.

“See? You’re alright now, let’s get you back to bed you git.” John adds the last word as a term of endearment; a slight smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock sags against John. The latter manages to carry the weight of the lean, yet muscular man; greatly trying to ignore the fact that both he and Sherlock are embarrassingly close to naked.

John puts aside his confusion, worry and concern over this whole episode and instead focuses on his current plan which involves taking care of Sherlock, encouraging the man – currently very much at risk of falling asleep on John’s shoulder – back to bed and bring down his own pillow and sleeping beside Sherlock for the rest of the night. It is possible that he will have another night terror in the same evening, and John wants to keep an eye on him.

John would be lying if he said he hasn’t been feeling a bit more protective of Sherlock in the past several months, he’s surprised Sherlock hasn’t yet commented on it. Being the master of observation and deduction, he must’ve noticed it. In fact, he seems a bit more subdued in some ways since John moved back in with him...though no less eccentric or his flamboyantly arrogant self though.

It takes some, though not too much, effort to cajole the near unconscious form of Sherlock into his bedroom and onto the bed. John briefly recollects the last time he did this which was during the Irene Adler case.

_“I’ll be next door if you need me.”_

_“Why would I need you?”_

_“No reason at all.”_

John carefully arranges the limbs of the consulting detective into the recovery position and pulls the blanket over Sherlock’s form and up to his neck. His friend’s eyes are closed now, heart rate and breathing returning to a sleeping norm. John briefly touches his forehead, sticky with drying sweat, and without thinking about it he brushes a lock of curly dark hair away from Sherlock’s eyes.

John thinks no more of his small gesture and makes his way back towards his bedroom, turning off the living room light as he does so. He also makes a mental note to take advantage of a clinic free work day to tidy up in the morning.

As John gathers up supplies from his bedroom (pillow, blanket, etc), he goes over some of the possible causes that could’ve caused Sherlock’s night terror; poor diet and poor sleeping habits are certainly two that could’ve attributed to it. However as far as John knows, Sherlock has unhealthy eating and sleeping habits for years and to John’s knowledge Sherlock has never had a night terror, however that doesn’t mean those reasons couldn’t have attributed to the night terror now. John is still vastly unaware of what happened during the three year gap in which Sherlock was “dead” (a time John prefers _not_ to think about), but again, there has been no indication of Sherlock having night terrors since coming back until tonight. The only thing that has changed today was this new case. Another cause could be emotional stress. Is Sherlock... _stressed_ about the case? Could that be what was off today? John isn’t sure; all he knows is that there was something strange, and not the usual Sherlock strange that is a part of John’s life every day, but something different altogether.

John sighs deeply. There are other causes that can predispose a person to night terrors, but given the mysterious and enigmatic nature of his friend...John wonders what could’ve ultimately triggered Sherlock Holmes to experience a night terror?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Earlier that day..._

 

“Mmm, tea glorious tea.” John hummed a contented sigh and leaned casually against the kitchen counter, shortly after taking a sip of the dark brown, faintly sugary liquid.

Sherlock gave an indignant sigh in response to John’s comment. At the time, the detective was perched on a low-back wooden chair, gazing down the length of his microscope and studying a glue-like substance. He wore his usual at home attire of pyjama bottoms, a ratty inside-out t-shirt and a blue dressing gown. “I believe the correct wording is food glorious food.” Sherlock mumbled. “Now please, if you would excuse yourself to elsewhere, I would appreciate it.”

John’s eyebrows shot up towards his slightly receding hairline (though John would never admit to that).

“After I make the toast. Now, how is that you, of _all_ people, a man who claimed that knowledge of the solar system ‘doesn’t matter’, can possibly know Oliver?” John asked with obvious surprise.

He pushed himself away from his casual recline against the kitchen counter and rounded the table; moving to stand directly across from the seated Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed once more and briefly flicked his gaze towards John before returning his focus to whatever he’d been working on, John had no idea what. He was just glad whatever it was hadn’t migrated its way towards the fridge and subsequently the food...yet.

“Irrelevant.” Was all Sherlock said in reply, so quietly John barely heard him.

John laughed.

“Of course it is.” John nodded and turned away with a smile on his face. It was a good day, and John had woken up feeling gloriously refreshed from a _decent_ night’s sleep for once and to the very much _not bored_ happenings of Sherlock. Overall, so far it was a good day for John.

He walked to the cupboard containing the bread and pulled out a few slices from within the bag. As John filled each slot of the toaster with a thick slice of bread, John had an amusing thought and started humming the famous ode from Oliver.

A very irritated grumble sounded from behind him and John smiled.

“John.” Sherlock said sternly. John pressed his lips firmly together to keep from laughing. “I fail to see how you find this so amusing, though I suppose the average mind is easily amused by trivial things. Oh, and if you would, please do not take that first comment as a precursor for you to inform me.”

“Absolutely.” John said, barely restraining a giggle. He nodded again and pulled down a plate to soon be filled with toast.

John heard no response from Sherlock. A couple more minutes passed and John soon had the toast buttered and ready to go. He temporarily left his toast on the counter in order to pursue another cup of tea. As he reached the still hot teapot and began to refill his cuppa, Sherlock spoke.

“John.”

John turned his head at the sound of his name. Upon setting his gaze on the detective he noticed the man had one of his arms stretched out towards John and holding a half empty, vaguely steaming, cup of tea.

_Oh, this is too good._

Feeling mischievous, John put on a very wide – too wide – smile and stepped around to Sherlock’s side; holding the teapot tightly in one hand.

When John didn’t do anything, like refill Sherlock’s tea as he clearly expected him to do, Sherlock turned his head minutely to face John. He frowned and narrowed his eyes at the expression on John’s face. John winked at Sherlock; the other man didn’t seem to register it and continued to look at John with an expression caught halfway between irritation and curiosity; he was still holding out his cup of tea.

Suddenly Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at John derisively. _Aha, the genius got it._

“Really John.” Sherlock gave John a look clearly meant to infer that John was being both idiotic and juvenile. Which he is, but John didn’t care, and John long ago built up a resistance to many of Sherlock’s looks.

Apparently a part of John’s good mood had transformed into amusing himself by having fun with his flatmate in a, what Sherlock would call, ‘juvenile’ way.

“If you say it I promise to leave you alone.” John smirked.

He had every intention of doing so anyway, and Sherlock clearly seemed to know that. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John perceptibly for a few more seconds, and then appeared to sigh in defeat (at least that’s what it looked like from John’s viewpoint), mumbled something that sounded like ‘humiliating’ and he put on a very fake, pleading expression.

“Please sir, may I have some more?” In a pitch perfect, boyish cockney accent.

John guffawed (surprised that Sherlock acquiesced) and poured more tea into Sherlock’s cup. The latter rolled his eyes again and immediately took a sip. He then put the cup down beside him, where it was most likely to either grow cold or become subject to an experiment of some sort.

John walked over and picked up his toast from the opposite counter. He carried it into the living room, with his cup of tea in the other hand.

He was still laughing quietly under his breath.

Sherlock of course heard him. Because John was facing the opposite direction, he didn’t notice the faint, very real smile gracing Sherlock’s mouth.

It was a good morning for the both of them.

Given the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, that was to change soon.

 

***

 

An hour later, John’s tea and breakfast were long gone and he was answering some emails and blog comments he’d neglected to respond to yet; he sat relaxed in his armchair, laptop balanced comfortably on his knees.

Sherlock was still very much intent on what he was doing, except now his focus had shifted from microscope to petri dish and notepad.

This comfortable, domestic peace was broken when Sherlock’s mobile rang.

John turned his head at the sound just as Sherlock pulled his mobile out of the pocket of his dressing gown. Without turning his gaze from the dish, Sherlock pressed a button and raised the phone to his ear.

“Lestrade. You have a case for me and John.” Sherlock said in a hopeful monotone.

John snorted (if John didn’t know better, he would say Sherlock was psychic) and returned to his activity. As Lestrade presumably started to convey the details of the case, John froze briefly in his typing as Sherlock’s words registered to him. More specifically when Sherlock said ‘you have a case for me and John’...even though Sherlock had been back for many months now, the two of them going on cases like they did before, it still made John feel a sense of relief whenever he heard those words.

John smiled warmly and resumed typing.

“Aha! John and I will be there shortly, text me the address.” Sherlock said, excitement quickly edging into his tone.

John long since realized that when it comes to Sherlock, his definition of ‘interesting’ usually means a psychotic villain looming on the horizon or something equally insane. From the way Sherlock had spoken, it was clear what was going to happen very shortly.

John closed down his laptop and got up from the chair; anticipation of his own filling his limbs at the prospect of a potentially thrilling case. Though Sherlock wasn’t bored per se, opting instead to catch up on a backlog of experiments he wanted to do, they hadn’t had a case for a week. Luckily for John’s sanity Sherlock had been able to suitably occupy his mind by performing experiments that didn’t involve limbs or heads of any kind, jumpers mysteriously going missing or John’s toothpaste being _bloody_ _switched out_ with an experimental compound that left John with burning gums for two days. No, instead Sherlock had been experimenting with various types of glue and glue-like substances. It could be much worse, for the past few days John had been waiting to find Sherlock had glued his shoes together or replaced his shampoo with it. So far, nothing of the sort had happened, most of his experiments were kept to either the kitchen table or his bedroom. John didn’t want to push his luck though, so he was very much hoping for an interesting case to show up before Sherlock started putting glue in his _hair._

There was a faint beep that signalled the end of Sherlock’s call.

“We have a case John, a serial killer! Oh wonderful!” Sherlock was positively gleeful and he swept away from the kitchen; accidently knocking over a short beaker that proceeded to break and spill a thick substance onto the table.

_Not wonderful for the victims._ John sighed and Sherlock strode towards his bedroom.

John was already dressed and wearing his go-to jumper (oatmeal cream coloured) and navy blue jeans. He didn’t have his gun however, and as a precaution John quickly ran upstairs to his bedroom to retrieve it. In very little time he was downstairs again and waiting for Sherlock. He slipped on his black jacket, gloves and hat while he waited; fully prepared for the cold November weather.

Sherlock within and on the fringes of a prospective case is a fascinating and magnificent sight. John will never cease to be amazed, and confounded, by this brilliant man. The gits compassion and empathy for others (other than John) may be virtually non-existent (but John has seen it, his best-friend is more human than the man himself would like to believe) but so much of what Sherlock does helps others, and John is honoured and grateful to be a part of it all. 

A very short time later Sherlock exited his room (he wore a black two piece suit with a forest green shirt) and slipped around John to reach his long, dark coat.

He quickly pulled on the rest of his garb; gloves and scarf. The whole ensemble complete, the word ‘beautiful’ flits across John’s mind. John has never used the word beautiful in describing another man before, but you would have to be blind to not see the ethereal beauty Sherlock Holmes possesses...John internally smacked himself for the weird direction his thoughts had taken.

“As pleased as I am that you like the outfit John, shall we go?” Sherlock bounced lightly on his feet and smirked at John.

_Oh the bastard, of course he noticed._ John shifted his stance slightly in mild embarrassment; Sherlock noticed the movement and his smirk grew wider, those compelling eyes fixed intently on Johns; scanning him. John blinked. 

“Let’s just go.” John said quickly, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock nodded and then opened the door. He practically ran down the stairs, yelling out loudly his catch phrase _“The game is on!”_ John followed quickly behind. High energy had already begun to swirl around them both.

 

         

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

“So, tell me about the case.” John said as he and Sherlock rode by cab to the crime scene.

Sherlock shifted his focus from gazing out the window to looking at John; the usual fire of a new case was alight in his eyes.

“Initially when Lestrade relayed the case to me, it at first appeared to be obvious and I rated it low on my scale. Certainly not worth my time, so I was just about to dismiss it. However, he then proceeded to inform me that there was another murder, nearly identical to the one we’re headed but in a different location than the first. Less than a week ago a man was killed in a bedroom that had been setup in an abandoned office building, single blow to the left temporal lobe that killed him. Open and shut case according to Anderson, which of course was the strongest indicator that they were wrong in their theory and subsequent arrest. Idiots. Lestrade was less convinced, however they did end up arresting and charging the only person who appeared to have motive; the victim’s wife. The man had been having an affair, which is obviously unrelated to the murder; I knew that much half way through Lestrade’s explanation on the phone. The murder which has now been committed proves it. Now, another man has been killed and left in a bedroom identical to the first one, within an unused warehouse approximately five minutes from where we currently are.” Sherlock recited his knowledge in a single, unwavering breath. He turned away and resumed his elegant posture, staring out the window; thinking.

 John frowned.

 “So...someone is setting up a bedroom, the same one, in these empty buildings and killing men there? Why?” John asked.

Sherlock gave John a look that said _‘seriously John?’_ before speaking.

“Obviously it is unwise to theorize without possession of all the facts, however based on what we know so far, I would postulate that the murderer is recreating the scene of a traumatic event that most likely occurred in the distant past. That much is evident, though I need more data to be sure.”

 “Of course.” John spoke with a sarcastic edge but smirked fondly at the detective. John nodded once in acknowledgment at Sherlock’s declaration and clasped his hands casually in his lap. As John looked out the window he noticed that they’d entered an area of industrial buildings.

The cab soon pulled up in front of one that was sectioned off with police tape and accompanied by police cars and various officers. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson are clustered close together on the opposite side of the tape to where the cab pulled up.

Sherlock, in true grandiose fashion, swiftly exited the cab; leaving John to pay. John left the cab and gave a few notes to the cabby. He made to follow Sherlock, only to notice that the detective paused halfway between the road and the police tape. John jogged up to his side and saw that Sherlock was peering with narrowed eyes and an irritated expression at his phone.

 “Everything alright?” John asked, watching at his friend curiously.

 Sherlock inhaled sharply and quickly pocketed his phone.

 “Of course.” Sherlock nodded brusquely and strode forward; irritation was gone and the blaze of a new case once again took command of Sherlock.

 Sherlock reached the police tape first and lifted the yellow for John to enter, much like their first night together. Except this time John is very much without a limp and cane.

 The trio turned to face the duo now on their side of the police tape.

 “Oh he’s here, that’s just great. Why?” Sally Donovan asked, her face twisted up in outrage. Anderson looked on with a very similar expression.

John frowned deeply. Sally may have desisted from calling Sherlock a freak – sometimes – but her disdain for the man was as potent as ever, and Anderson hasn’t changed in the slightest. John is normally quite bothered when Sherlock is unnecessarily horrible to people, however in the case of Donovan and Anderson, John isn’t bothered in the least. Those two, especially Sally – Anderson is really just an idiot (a fact in which John agrees with Sherlock) – can be very cruel to Sherlock, which he doesn’t deserve. Sherlock may be cruel at times as well, but not intentionally in the way Donovan is.

Lestrade wiped a hand over his face in a gesture of the long suffering and exasperated.

Sherlock gave a Sally a long look. “Sergeant, being in the presence of idiots is already agonizing enough-” Sherlock looked sideways to Anderson as he said that. The latter bristled. “-if you would refrain from expressing the same rhetorical question every time I see you, I may grow to simply dislike you instead of the contempt in which I hold you now.” Sherlock spoke quickly and exuded an air of condescension.

 Sally was fuming. Before she could say anything Lestrade whispered something in her ear and she quickly departed, giving Sherlock a departing revolted snort.

 “She has a point.” Anderson said firmly; his blue forensic coveralls were too tight across his midriff and backside.

Lestrade sighed and looked about ready to say something, but at that point Sherlock flicked his observing stare to Anderson, a tiny smile quirked Sherlock’s mouth, first disgusted and then gleeful.

_Oh no._ John thought in his head.

“Of course she does.” Sherlock smiled and bowed gracefully. Anderson looked at Sherlock dubiously. The tall man turned to face Lestrade. He cast a brief glance over his shoulder to Anderson. “You may want to apply an analgesic cream to your backside Anderson. I’m sure your discomfort was only caused by _sitting_ on Sergeant Donovan’s hand...many times.”

John barely suppressed a laugh at the look of incensed horror and embarrassment on Andersons face. Sherlock giggled at John’s poor attempt at hiding his amusement. Lestrade looked vaguely horrified himself.

Anderson immediately turned and walked away, it was then that John noticed the obvious discomfort he was in. He knew it wasn’t right, but John had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. John looked at Sherlock sideways and saw the infuriating man barely suppressing his own laughter.

“I feel like I’m in school again.” Lestrade muttered. “Seriously Sherlock, have you ever thought of trying, I don’t know...diplomacy?” 

Now John guffawed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly at John. He then turned his attention towards Lestrade.

“Lestrade, I am not responsible for the idiocy and sexual lifestyle of your _colleagues._ ” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. Lestrade looked ready to retort, but Sherlock quickly resumed speaking. “In any event, it doesn’t matter. The crime scene on the other hand, beckons.” Sherlock immediately sauntered away towards the warehouse, his long coat billowed widely around him and his thick, curly dark hair blew gently in the chill, London wind.

John shivered as a gust hit him. _Should’ve worn a warmer coat._

“How are things John?” Lestrade asked, clapping him on the shoulder good-naturedly.

During the time of Sherlock’s absence, Lestrade had been one of the few connections to Sherlock that John kept in contact with. They’d formed a closer friendship during that time, which primarily consisted of either avoiding the subject of Sherlock altogether or Lestrade trying to hide the fact that he genuinely thought John would kill himself. He would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but John never went that far. Lestrade was the one that introduced him to Mary, a friend of his sisters.

“Things are generally insane and good as always.” John smiled slightly.

Lestrade laughed. “Glad to hear it mate.”

John smirked. “So how have you been Greg?” John asked. His stance shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to keep warm.

“Exhausted. Too much paperwork.” Lestrade said. “Also confused about this case, we seriously believed we had the person responsible. And now this.” He made a general arm movement in the direction of the warehouse.

Before John could respond, he heard Sherlock’s deep baritone echo loudly along the wind. “Come on John!” Sherlock called loudly from the door of the large, ominous grey building.

John sighed and watched as Sherlock stepped inside.

 “I suppose we should go.”

“Yep, wouldn’t want the overgrown child roaming around the crime scene unsupervised would we?” Lestrade said. Fondness was evident in his voice.

John sniggered and stuffed his hands deeply into his pockets.

At that moment he went over the people that he is aware of that genuinely care for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock might as well be her son, and John too feels deep affection for her), Molly, Lestrade and John (who knows Sherlock better than anyone else), Mycroft as well, in his own distorted and controlling way. John doubts that Sherlock truly realizes how many people actually care for him. John remembered then the conversation that occurred during the Baskerville case, _“I don’t have friends, I’ve just got one”_. And maybe for Sherlock that was true, however John is positive he isn’t the only one that feels affection for the consulting detective. The man has always had a blind spot when feelings and emotions akin to love or caring come into play, especially when directed towards him.

Those thoughts were quickly pushed away as another draught of cold wind nipped at John’s face, to his right John saw Lestrade shiver as well.

The both of them then started to speedily head in the direction of the crime scene and Sherlock.

 

***

 

There was no sign of Sherlock when John and Lestrade first entered the building. Both of them assumed the man, magnetically drawn to a potential mystery of any kind, had gone on ahead.

They were right.

John was lead by Lestrade through a large room that appeared to have been used for packaging of some sort, old, dusty equipment and piles of empty boxes littered the area; along with a few police officers and forensic specialists. One side of this gigantic room was dominated by a series of doors. Lestrade and John went through the one on the far left, this lead to another large space.

John’s jaw dropped open in surprise at the bizarre sight before him. The first thing John noticed (other than Donovan and Anderson chatting closely off to the side along with two other police officers) was that unlike the rooms he’d seen before entering this one, there was no indication of any previous business ever existing here. The police issue lamps (since the room was windowless) that were lit illuminated a very clean, certainly not dusty, space. However, in the middle of the room there was a large square rug that covered a good-sized portion of the cement floor. On top of that rug was a large, four-poster bed complete with bedding and pillows. There was also a plain, yet sturdy looking desk with a dark brown chair tucked against it; both at the end of the rug opposite the bed. The only other pieces of furniture were an end table beside the bed and a gilded lamp on top of it.

In the middle of this strange spectacle was the body. It was there that John spotted Sherlock standing over the man. At first it looked like Sherlock was observing the victim the way he normally does.

“We’ve been unable to determine who the victim is, no ID has been found on the body.” Lestrade spoke, loud enough for Sherlock to hear as well.

As John and Lestrade continued forward, John noticed a slight stiffness to his friend. John doubted anyone other than someone who knew Sherlock well would’ve noticed the difference between that and his usual almost tranquil immobility. This wasn’t focused stillness, a state common to Sherlock’s character; this...this was _forced rigidness._ As if he was trying to control something.

John frowned in concern and stepped close to his friend.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The fact that Sherlock didn’t immediately say something or look at John was another indicator that something was wrong. John could feel it. “Are you ok?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the man lying dead before their feet. Sherlock’s eyes were unblinking; brow pulled stiffly together, something that could’ve indicated distress, intense concentration or confusion, maybe all three. Knowing Sherlock, it was difficult for John to know for sure.

John could feel Lestrade eyeing the exchange, good thing the man had tact enough to not say anything for the time being. But John knew that he couldn’t wait forever, there was a crime to solve after all.

John glanced down and noticed that Sherlock’s hand was clenching tightly and unclenching over and over again; other than that slight movement Sherlock was still totally stiff. “Sherlock.” John repeated a bit firmer, more concerned than ever. John immediately looked over Sherlock with a doctor’s gaze, nothing physically unusually jumped out at him.

Not entirely sure what to do next, John lowered his hand from the spot on Sherlock’s shoulder and moved to take his friends pulse. The second John’s fingers touched the pale, bare skin of Sherlock’s wrist, John suddenly felt a strong, vice like grip encapsulate his hand; essentially preventing him from taking his friends pulse.

The movement shocked John into stillness. He looked up to find Sherlock now staring at him.

“I’m _fine_ John.” Sherlock’s voice came out sounding huskier than usual.

John highly doubted that Sherlock’s definition of fine and Johns were the same, but at that moment as he looked at his friends face; there seemed to be a wordless plea to not say or ask anything further. John hesitated, but eventually nodded; not at all happy with what just happened.

Sherlock looked almost relieved and gently squeezed John’s wrist – much to his surprise – once before he let go of John’s hand.

Sherlock nodded and focused again on the body. He crouched down and pulled out his pocket magnifier along with a pair of blue, latex gloves. He then began a thorough examination of the man’s head.

 John felt a little like someone who had been staring at a wall of ice only to have it turn to fire in seconds. Just like that, Sherlock had blanketed whatever had been happening to him behind an expressionless mask and his normal demeanour of curiosity and observation arose to take over.

_Something is off._

John crossed his arms and backed away a few steps, giving Sherlock room to work. The last few minutes repeating themselves in John’s head, he tried to figure out what the bloody hell just happened.

Lestrade moved to stand beside John. The former looked at John questioningly; clearly he’d noticed something as well. John shrugged. Lestrade frowned and turned to Sherlock. 

“I really need something, what have you got for me Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. His arms were also crossed in a pose nearly mirroring John’s.

Sherlock straightened out of his crouch. John watched him with a careful eye.

“John, what do you think?” Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the body and completely ignoring Lestrade’s query.

Sherlock and John shared a glance, one that acknowledged John had noticed something odd happened – however briefly – to Sherlock, and Sherlock hiding it behind a resolute mask; that could’ve either indicated that he was planning on either postponing John’s questions or ignoring John’s concern altogether. John doesn’t trust that look; the last time he saw it was over three years ago.

John stood unmoving for a minute, and Sherlock seemed to frown briefly before exhaling deeply and turning his gaze away from John.

John unfolded from his position and crouched low beside the body; Sherlock then moved to stand directly beside him. He put aside his own concern for the time-being, brought about his anatomical doctor knowledge and like Sherlock, pushed his worries away (for now) and forced himself to focus on the case; already feeling that intoxicating sense of purpose Sherlock brought into his life...though if that purpose had come with less body parts in the fridge or fewer incidents of wall shooting, John wouldn’t have complained. However, he wouldn’t trade his life now for anything.

A pair of latex gloves appeared in the corner of his vision, being handed to him from Lestrade. John nodded and swiftly encased his hands in the gloves. He then started studying the man lying dead before him, making his own observations on cause of death and any other potential points that could help in distinguishing anything useful about the man or maybe even the killer. His deduction abilities pale in comparison to Sherlock’s, and what John could tell Sherlock that the genius wouldn’t be able to figure out himself, he doesn’t know. Still, John liked to think that he is useful...Even if it’s just “conducting light” as Sherlock once put it, at the time John wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not. Eventually he decided that was quite a compliment coming from his friend, intentional or not.

“Adult male, approximately...forty years old, evidence of a blow to the left temporal bone that likely killed him...which maybe could’ve been caused by a fall, or being hit with something round gathering from the indentation? There are signs of a secondary fracture on the back of his skull, very different from the other one. No defensive wounds that I can see.” John pulled up the victim’s suit jacket and shirt to get a look at the skin beneath. “He’s been dead approximately eight or ten hours, lividity suggests he hasn’t been moved.” John stood up. “His clothes don’t seem right.” He added.

Sherlock made an approved hum from John’s left. John glanced at the man and saw a complimentary twinkle there as well.

“As always John, your observations are obvious, but I am sure more astute than any of the idiots here could produce.” _Ah Sherlock, the master of deduction and insulting compliments._ Sherlock started walking around the crime scene; briefly glancing at everything with narrowed eyes, taking a little more time to look at the floor. There was something rigid in his walk. John disregarded Sherlock’s remark in favour of observing the man himself with a troubled eye. “You are quite right about the clothes; I highly doubt any of those here noticed. Well done John.”

John smirked sarcastically.

Lestrade sighed. “Would you care to explain Sherlock?” The very exhausted sounding man asked.

“Really Lestrade, I would’ve thought at least you would notice that the clothes quite clearly do not belong to the victim.” Sherlock pointed casually to the body.

“What are you talking about Freak?” Donovan appeared to join the three of them near the body.

 John felt himself tense. John never liked her, and he will most certainly never forgive her for the defamatory and horrible way she pounced on the ridiculous possibility of Sherlock being a fraud. He’s yet to say it aloud, but in his own head, he is happy to call her a bitch.

“There is no indication that the clothes the victim is wearing _didn’t_ belong to him.” Anderson also commented, rather confidently. He joined Sally by her side.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and appeared to mutter ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ under his breath. “Please Anderson; I can feel my mind atrophying from the sound of the single wheel turning uselessly in your head. Either shut up, or leave the room. I would be oh so grateful if you chose the latter.”

Sally narrowed her eyes. Anderson looked so horribly indignant as he turned to Lestrade, but appeared to acquiesce to what Sherlock said and didn’t say anything else...not that he was happy about it. The DI frowned as he glanced at Sherlock with a faintly disapproving look. Sherlock ignored the both of them and gave a slight dramatic twirl of his coat as he turned to focus entirely on John and Lestrade.

“There are heavy amounts of dirt caked under his untrimmed fingernails, his hands are heavily marked and very calloused, his hair is extremely knotted and he has an odor most definitely not decay, there is the presence of various forms of city dirt – most of which have been hastily, and rather poorly wiped off his skin – in between the crevices of his fingers, behind his ears and on his scalp, and the discolouration – also unrelated to the death – and weathering of the skin, all of these quite clearly indicate the man hasn’t bathed for a quite some time and that he resided primarily outside. Homeless. No one dressed him; he was made to dress himself shortly before he died. Obviously he was murdered, and as John so astutely observed, most likely due to the blow he received to his temple. Either the murderer didn’t really try to make the man appear to not be homeless, or he’s just that stupid. Other evidence would suggest he is merely theatrical, and angry, but far from stupid. This man was chosen by chance, you will find no motive for the killing of him specifically, likely the same for the other victim as well. Also, the man who set up the crime scenes is not the man who killed the two men. Additionally, since the man was obviously standing and bending over slightly, unrestrained, facing the killer when he was hit, most likely he was told to do so. The angle of which the blow was delivered indicates whomever did kill him is either a short adult or a tall child. Impossible to tell which at this point. There are a few indeterminate facts that are unclear to me, which so far makes this case moderately interesting. I won’t need to visit St Barts until tomorrow; I’ll retrieve the autopsy report for the first victim then. I’m assuming that due to the nature of the case Molly will be autopsying this victim rather soon after receiving the body, so if the report is ready by then I’ll retrieve that one too, as well as examine the body myself for any distinguishable markings. If you would be so kind and bring me the case file for the first victim and whatever you have so far for this murder, as soon as possible, it would be much appreciated. I’m guessing, though I rarely guess, that identical murder weapons were used on both and that they were left at the scene? I’ll need to examine those as well.” Sherlock bent down quickly and took a picture of the victim’s face with his mobile.

John was, as always, stunned by the speed and ease at which Sherlock performed his deductions and observations so casually. John at that moment doubted that he would ever cease to be amazed by Sherlock.

Still, there were a few things John didn’t like hearing Sherlock say so flippantly; the possibility of the murderer being a child being one of them. Before he could voice this though, Lestrade did.

“You’re saying a _child_ could’ve done this?” Lestrade asked, looking at Sherlock with disbelief.

“Or a short adult. If a child was responsible, it is likely the child will be missing.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly; while he moved on to examine one of the bedposts with a frown. “I’ll need to view the case file for the other murder in more detail to make an absolute judgement.”

Lestrade sighed. “I’m not even going to bother wondering how you know all that, I don’t have the energy. I can’t just give you evidence we haven’t properly looked over yet, but we have bagged the murder weapon used here. You can take a look at it.” The DI gave a pointed looked to Donovan. She growled faintly and walked away in a huff, presumably to retrieve the murder weapon.

“Hold on, you said the man was standing, bending slightly over, unrestrained and facing the murderer when he was killed. Why?” John asked. He certainly couldn’t think of a reason.

“That’s a reasonable question John. In all likelihood he was threatened with something if he didn’t comply, what that something is...” Sherlock let the thought trail off. At that point he’d moved on from examining the bedpost to looking at the bed sheets with a strange expression, like he was in pain and trying to hide it. John only saw it because in spite of what Sherlock would say, he could read him quite well in most circumstances.

John immediately side-stepped the body and stood beside Sherlock.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked, his voice lowered so no one else could here.

“We are investigating a serial killer.” Sherlock shrugged, voice monotone and equally quiet.

“Don’t do that. You know what I mean; you’ve been on edge ever since we came in here. You cannot pretend there isn’t something...bothering you, not from me. I saw and I know you know I saw. Tell me what’s wrong.” John spoke firmly and calmly, trying not to let his worry show.

Sherlock’s expression briefly morphed into one of anger. John recoiled but didn’t move from his position beside his friend.

“I do not have to tell you anything John.” His voice had changed to a lower octave in a menacing way. “I don’t have time for your misplaced, _sentimental_ concern.” Sherlock stared John down, and John stared right back.

“Damn it Sherlock, how is _this_ misplaced? You’re acting...strangely.” John said, with no small amount of frustration. Sherlock raised a singular eyebrow. John rolled his eyes. “Stranger than usual.” John corrected and tried to calm himself down; a task not always easily done. “Look Sherlock, I’m your friend, I’m worried-”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock interrupted him.

John restrained the urge to growl in frustration. They are at a crime scene after all.

“I can’t _not_ be.” He continued to stare at Sherlock with unrelenting determination. He resisted the urge to shake the man into telling what is wrong, which he knew would definitely be a bit not good. _Something is definitely not quite right here._ Sherlock rarely expresses anger like that towards John, unless he is bored or a case turns out to be frightfully simple for him.

Before John could say anything, Donovan returned.

“Here you go Freak. Do not take the evidence out of the bag. I’m watching you.” She said brusquely.

John and Sherlock stepped away from each other, and Sherlock – who had been bending forward slightly – straightened his posture. Neither noticed Sally returning nor how close and fixedly they had been staring at each other; both stubborn and daring the other to go further in their argument.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John, a coldness seeping into his irises, and took the bag roughly from Sally. John sighed in frustration and crossed his arms.

It was when John heard a jagged inhale that he turned back to look at Sherlock and the bag – which John presumed to be the murder weapon – Donovan had just handed to him. 

Initially his eyes were drawn to the weapon itself, only peripherally taking in Sherlock...John frowned in confusion. _What the hell?_ “A bust of Norman Bethune? Huh, I’ve never seen _that_ used as a murder weapon before. Bizarre.”

“Yes...”

John immediately glanced up at the tone in his friend’s voice; eerily hushed, very much _not_ like Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were rigidly fixed to the clear evidence bag, inside which is the two fist sized (yet heavy looking) bust of Norman Bethune; on the round part of his head you could see bits of hair and blood. Mostly Sherlock appeared to be frustrated and confused. It was almost imperceptible, but John could see the evidence bag shaking; caused by Sherlock’s hand trembling faintly.

_Ok, what the bloody hell is going on?_

John automatically placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Sherlock.” John said quietly as he gazed at the eyes of his friend; fear very much present in them... _fear?_ John suddenly felt scared himself. For more than one reason, when Sherlock is afraid of something, it is never a good thing.

The consulting detectives hand immediately stilled and the fear was gone as quickly as it appeared, however Sherlock didn’t retract his hand from underneath John’s.

“Norman Bethune, a famous military doctor from the early twentieth century, Canadian with strong British ancestry.” Sherlock spoke quickly, a blank expression on his face. He shoved the evidence bag quite forcefully – _too forcefully_ – in John’s direction; he automatically caught it. “I have learned all I can here.” 

Sherlock strode hurriedly away in the direction of the door.

John’s brow creased somewhere between confusion and apprehension. He immediately made to follow him, but was stopped by Lestrade gently grabbing his arm.

“What is wrong with him?” Lestrade asked.

John turned to look at him; he noticed that the man was wearing an expression similar to his own.

“I don’t know.” John sighed inwardly.

Lestrade nodded and didn’t pursue the subject further.

“I will bring the case file for the first murder tomorrow and whatever else I have for this one.” Lestrade said as he released John’s arm.

“Alright.”

“Take care John.” Lestrade said. The words carried an additional meaning.

John glanced in the direction Sherlock had disappeared to.

“I will, thank-you Greg.”

Lestrade smiled faintly and gave one last friendly pat to John’s shoulder before walking away in the direction of his officers and those preparing to take the body away.

John started jogging after Sherlock.

In very little time he was outside and anxiously looking around for the familiar form of the man in the long coat.

John noticed him standing by the curb, looking pointedly in John’s direction. He soon joined Sherlock’s side.

“I’ve called a cab. We’ll need to make a brief stop before heading back to Baker Street. Hopefully Lestrade will bring around those case files and autopsy reports early tomorrow. So far, this case is intriguing enough. The murder itself was unspectacular, but the manner in which he died and his surroundings are most telling to the killer’s state of mind, although the exact motive is unclear. I am certain that the individual who did the actual killing act had very little or nothing to do with the planning of it. I’ll know more once I get a look at those files, and should our next destination prove successful, from that as well.”

John was about to say something, but a faint buzzing from Sherlock’s pocket distracted him. Sherlock pulled out his phone and glanced at the text. He visibly tensed and growled. His fingers flew across the screen as he typed out a response. Sherlock, with a bit too much force, put his mobile back in his pocket.

John briefly wondered if that text was related to the one he received earlier.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes John?”

Sherlock turned his coat collar up against the cool wind whisking around them.

“What happened back there?” John asked, probably a bit too loudly.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, his body was still tense.

“I do wish you would desist in asking that question and any one similar to it. We’re on a case that is at least interesting.”

John, seeing no better option, acquiesced for the time being. A frown appeared on his face.

“Alright.” He said, stuffing his hands deeply inside his pockets. “The case, gotcha.”

“John.”

He turned to face Sherlock. For a brief moment, John allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of a cold-nipped, unkempt by fierce wind, Sherlock Holmes. It was oddly endearing.

John noticed Sherlock was staring straight ahead at the road, studiously not facing John. In the distance the sound of a nearing cab was heard by the both of them.

“Yes?” John said.

“Thank-you.”

Sherlock said it so softly John almost didn’t hear it.


	4. Chapter 4

 

The one brief stop turned out to be two. Each one consisted of Sherlock jumping out of the cab and talking animatedly to some people from his Homeless Network, a young woman on a street near the scene of the second murder and an older gentleman who resided nearby. John waited in the cab, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what Sherlock was doing; asking them if they saw anything, showing them the photograph and to investigate and report to him should they discover someone who knew or saw anything.

Each detour lasted only a few minutes. Soon John and Sherlock were headed back to Baker Street; Sherlock silent and deep in thought throughout the cab ride. He intermittingly would appear to tense, then relax, and tense again.

Whether Sherlock wanted to talk about it or not, something was definitely on his mind. And it couldn’t have been entirely pleasant.

A few minutes from Baker Street, Sherlock received another text and his reaction was similar to when he viewed the two at the crime scene.

John was about to ask who was texting him when Sherlock seemed to predict his question and answered before John could even ask.

_“Mycroft.”_ Sherlock spat his brother’s name and appeared to delete the text like John assumed he did to the others.

“Ah.” John nodded. _That would explain Sherlock’s reaction; still, could that have been all it was? Mycroft getting under Sherlock’s skin?_ John doubted it. His friend’s reactions at the crime scene were too connected to the scene itself to have been only caused by texts from his brother.

Sherlock and John didn’t speak another word to each other throughout the entire ride back to Baker Street.

Sherlock changed into his typical home attire of pyjamas and dressing gown once they arrived home. He assumed a ritual of pacing, rubbing fingers through his hair in agitation, and lying statuesque on the couch; eyes closed and palms pressed together. John meanwhile proceeded with his own ritual of trying _not_ to watch Sherlock and failing, drinking tea, looking up stuff online, watching the telly, reading and being present to Sherlock; very much consumed by a case. There was something different though, whatever was going on within Sherlock’s substantial mind caused him to feel more remote to John than what was usual after a case.

Sherlock never said a word. Eventually he nicked John’s laptop when John was distracted and then subsequently disappeared into his room.

John wouldn’t see him until Sherlock screamed; which signalled the beginning of his first night terror.

***

John lays his blanket down on the side of Sherlock’s bed not covered by the lanky detective, and his pillow next to the one currently subjected to dark, curly locks. Sherlock himself is fast asleep, which is even more miraculous considering the fact that Sherlock is on a case. He never, _ever_ sleeps on a case (which John finds quite ridiculous). Either his body has reached its limit, had enough and decided to pass out on him (which has happened before, though admittedly not often. Sherlock has an incredible amount of control) or whatever it is that’s on Sherlock’s mind caused him to want to sleep...? But that doesn’t really sound like him. John is more inclined to believe something along the lines of the first option, possibly a combination of two. Much to John’s annoyance, Sherlock seldom eats or sleeps properly during a case, or any other time. When Sherlock sleeps, he does so deeply and for long periods of time. John calls it sleep-bingeing. Although John has noticed Sherlock’s eating and sleeping habits have been at least a little healthier since John moved back into 221b.

Now wearing slightly more than just his pants, John lifts up his own blanket and lays on top of Sherlock’s duvet; settling in quite comfortably. Even through all the layers John can feel the intense body heat of his friend asleep beside him. The last time he shared a bed with anyone was Mary...a painful thump thuds in his heart at the memory and John turns to face away from Sherlock. John loved his wife dearly and under the circumstances, he was as happy as his heart allowed him to be.

One of the things that John has come to terms within the last year or so (though he is positive now that Mary knew before he even did, she just never said anything) was that the love he felt for his wife paled to what he felt for Sherlock. John isn’t convinced the love he feels for his best-friend is romantic. The fact that some part of John considers it a possibility of sorts is shocking enough; there was a time when he would’ve near cringed at the possibility. Not out of latent homophobia, and not just because John has long thought of himself as heterosexual, but because...there is something so otherworldly about Sherlock, he is unlike any human being John has ever met, and yet the most human of them all. There is something about him that is intoxicatingly frightening. Regardless of the type of love, it is stronger than what he felt for Mary. John would be dishonest if he said that he didn’t feel any amount of attraction towards Sherlock, although it’s probably less a physical attraction and more a...mental? Emotional one? It’s a fact that the man is uniquely beautiful. John doubts anyone, straight or not, would be unable to at least acknowledge that.

 The most potent evidence of the difference between his love for Mary and love for Sherlock is that the way he grieved for both of them was poles apart. Losing Mary hurt as though his heart had been burned and twisted. Losing Sherlock...that was like losing himself, and it was terrifying. Losing the brilliant and maddening man felt much to John like a gaping maw had appeared inside him that would never be filled except by the man himself, the man he lost.

 On some level, John does feel guilty. He should’ve loved his _wife_ more. The thing is, when he does have moments of feeling guilty for that, he smiles with a faint laugh. Because he knows that Mary, being the open and loving person she was (Sherlock’s opposite in _every_ way) wouldn’t have been angry or disappointed if John told her. She would’ve understood and not have held it against him.

He is sure now he would’ve survived if Sherlock actually had died, he would’ve been able to live, in some way even though he would always miss Sherlock, and move on. But, would he have ever felt truly _alive_ again? John doesn’t think so, he hopes he’ll never have to find out either way.

John’s thoughts are interrupted by the shrill sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing and buzzing; coming from somewhere to his left.

Thinking that it could be something important (information on the case for example) or that the ringing may wake Sherlock (and the man really does need his rest), John bends half out of the bed and reaches for the phone; glowing faintly on the floor next to Sherlock’s suit trousers. Sherlock’s clothing is an odd dichotomy; fastidious about high-quality suits and pyjamas that must be years old (and usually inside out), however he has no qualms about exposing either one to anything a case or an experiment could provide; blood, chemicals, gun shots, water, anything.

John’s fingers curl around the phone and he glances at the message flashing on the screen; his eyes widening in incredulity and feeling anger coupled with confusion as he reads the message...which really, might as well be a threat.

_I did warn you little brother. I told you it would be unwise to enter that crime scene. I am aware my words are most assuredly being ignored by you, however I feel obligated to tell you – again – that the consequences to you and John could potentially be quite severe if you pursue this case. I won’t be held responsible for what happens._

_\- MH_

 

          ***

 

John is awoken, rather abruptly, by sounds of activity; doors opening and closing, footsteps and voices, all coming from the living room of 221b.

He yawns. As John looks around it becomes apparent quite quickly that he isn’t in his own room, and it takes a few groggy seconds more before John remembers that he is in Sherlock’s room. _In Sherlock’s bed._ And then he remembers why.

 John is alert instantly. He looks over to where Sherlock was. The bed is empty. Why didn’t he wake him up? John would’ve thought that if Sherlock woke first he’d have demanded what the hell John is doing in his bed.

Unless John miraculously forgot, he hasn’t woken up once since falling asleep here. John checks the clock, almost noon. _Wow, I can’t remember the last time I slept so long. At least Sherlock didn’t have another night terror; there’s no way I would have slept through that._

John pushes himself out of Sherlock’s bed. He then notices the chair in Sherlock’s room has been pushed close to this side of the bed. John’s brow momentarily creases in confusion before he notices his own dressing gown has been laid out, rather neatly, along the back of the chair.

_Sherlock?_

John shakes his head and decides to forgo the analysis of his friend’s, at times (ok, quite often) unexplainable behaviour ( _I need tea first_ ), and instead he reaches for the gown and wraps in tightly around himself. _Maybe Sherlock was just trying to be nice...?_ John can barely finish the thought without laughing.

 Whatever the reason, he is grateful for the small gesture.

That gratitude is short lived however as worry and apprehension seep in. The case, Sherlock’s strange (strange for Sherlock) reaction to it and the night terror...what is going on? John very much wants to know, but he doubts Sherlock, a man who is vigorously careful about what he shares (especially anything he perceives as a weakness, feelings and emotions being among them), will tell him.

With these thoughts and more swirling around his head, John exits Sherlock’s bedroom with a yawn and walks down the short hallway. The sounds of voices are louder. John enters the kitchen.

“Ah John, good. Finally.”

John turns at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. The detective is sitting in his armchair by the fireplace, a file – _ah, the case file_ – lies open in his lap; Sherlock is focusing on it intensely. He is wrapped tight in his own red dressing gown, John notices he is wearing different pyjamas from last night and his hair appears to be damp. _Shower then._

Lestrade is standing right beside him, arms crossed and looking between John and Sherlock’s bedroom door, his eyebrows rise high as he does so and he smiles knowingly at John.

_Oh bloody hell_ \- John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Lestrade shrugs, still smiling, and turns his focus back to Sherlock and the file.

John groans and turns to the kettle.

“You can return your eyebrows to their normal position Lestrade, John and I did not engage in any sexual act, intercourse or otherwise.” Sherlock’s voice is loud and clear, and bored.

John nearly drops the kettle before he plugs it in and turns it on. Well, he can certainly always trust his friend to be clinically blunt. He turns around and heads toward the two men in the living room.

Lestrade looks confused. “Then why were you-”

“Why does it matter? The _case_ Lestrade!” Sherlock sighs in exasperation and waves a piece of paper in their direction, one step away from smacking the file on Lestrade’s head.

Lestrade’s jaw clamps shut and he doesn’t finish his question. John looks at his friend with a critical eye, checking for any signs of last night; he is sitting a little more heavily in his chair than usual, but other than that he is his usual, case absorbed, constantly observing self. Does he know about what happened? It is unlikely that he remembers, but being the master of deduction, John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock figured out what happened.

As if sensing his assessment, Sherlock looks up at John; there is an edge to his gaze that suggests...discomfort? Other than that, his face is studiously encased in a coldly focused mask. He is staring at John unblinkingly, not saying anything, his eyes focusing with a frown at the faint bruise blooming on John’s jaw. John doesn’t flinch. The fact that his friend isn’t saying anything, combined with the look in his eyes, indicates to John that he is trying to convey something...He can feel a thick tension growing between them, different than usual and it unsettles John. Well, maybe not so different, there is something vaguely familiar about it...and that unsettles John even more. A worry line creases John’s brow.

Lestrade is looking back and forth between the two men giving each other a very strange form of staring contest.

The sound of the kettle whistling relieves the coiled, taut tension like air being depressed from a balloon. Sherlock looks back at the case file, setting a few pages aside, and John turns around to make tea.

“Would you like some tea Greg?” John asks.

Lestrade smiles faintly. “No thanks John, I’ve got to run. I just came by to drop these off.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock. “Call or text me the _minute_ you know something.”

Sherlock ignores him; studiously focused on what looks like an autopsy report.

John frowns.

“We will.” John quickly says, trying to sound reassuring.

Lestrade looks at John gratefully but it is clear he doesn’t quite believe him. He nods to Sherlock and John.

“Try not to run off and get yourselves injured or killed, I need a break once in a while. Also, don’t go anywhere important without me or at least one of my officers. This is a NSY case after all.” Lestrade is at the door now.

“And you’re doing a _fantastic_ job solving it.” Sherlock mutters sarcastically.

John throws Sherlock a sharp look and Lestrade rolls his eyes. The latter looks at Sherlock briefly with a worried brow, and then cocks his head at John; towards the stairway. John nods.

Lestrade exits and John follows him. He shuts the door to the living room and faces Lestrade.

“How is he doing? Something seemed...strange about how he was at the crime scene yesterday.” Lestrade crosses his arms and looks at John firmly.

As much as John knows that Lestrade cares about Sherlock and that Sherlock cares about him too (the three bullets proved that), he doubts Sherlock would want him knowing about the night terror. John wouldn’t share that with anyone anyway unless Sherlock told him he could or they became really bad and persistent and Sherlock refused help (which could happen).

“He’s...he’ll be fine.” John says quietly so as to not alert Sherlock.

Lestrade hesitates before nodding.

“John! If you and Lestrade are quite done conversing about me, I need you in here.” Sherlock calls out loudly.

“Not everything is about you, you know!” John calls back.

Both Lestrade and John hear a snort of disbelief come from behind the closed door.

John laughs. Lestrade chuckles as well. “Take care John, keep an eye on him.”

John nods.

“I always do.” _No you don’t_ , the voice of past pain and guilt echoes in his head. John ignores it.

Lestrade nods and pats John on the shoulder once before disappearing down the stairs.

John turns around and opens the door. As he re-enters the living room the sound of a text alert coming from Sherlock’s phone echoes in the flat. John is suddenly reminded of that text from Mycroft and he tenses immediately.

John faces Sherlock and he sees that he has his phone balanced on the arm of the chair. He watches as Sherlock glances at it briefly and grimaces, he turns back to his work quickly.

John works his way towards the kitchen and tea, pondering whether or not to bring up last night, or yesterday at all. Judging by how Sherlock reacted to even the simplest query the day before, in all likelihood he would brush off any attempt John made. However, John cannot ignore this prickling feeling that something is _wrong._ The way Sherlock barely acknowledged John after they came home, Sherlock’s reaction at the crime and the night terror being the primary evidence supporting that theory.

A part of John knows he shouldn’t be, but underneath this concern and uncertainty, there is anger. He feels angry, irrationally, and he’s not entirely sure why. As a result, he places Sherlock’s mug of tea beside him on the end table with more force than necessary.

Sherlock doesn’t fail to notice. His gaze pauses over his examination of a statement made by the police’s initial suspect and he looks up at John briefly.

John takes a seat across from Sherlock with his own mug of tea.

“You’re angry. Why?” Sherlock asks.

It’s stupid. Why is he angry? Because Sherlock won’t share what’s going on? That’s hardly new and John really shouldn’t expect Sherlock, of all people, to “open up”. So what is it? What Mycroft said? Well, yes, he is angry about that (but in a different way), but he was also angry before he saw it. John sighs, feeling the littlest bit annoyed.

 Instead of answering, he decides to deflect the question with one of his own.

“Do you know what happened last night?”

This is something John genuinely wants to know, for a few reasons. One of them being that since Sherlock woke up before him, he would obviously know that John slept in his bed and John is still vaguely undecided on how he should explain that. It depends on how much Sherlock knows. “Are you...alright?” John adds.

Sherlock pauses briefly before answering, his gaze flickering over John a few more times. Sherlock puts aside the statement and lifts up the first in a series of photographs; he briefly looks at it before putting it aside also. He leans back in his chair and focuses on John, leaving the case file on his lap for the moment. He places his hands together and rests the tips of his fingers against his chin.

John is then the subject of Sherlock’s shrewd stare, a bit colder than usual; a faint expression of displeasure appears on his features as well.

John feels himself tense further.

“I assure you, I know all I need to know about last night. There is no need to discuss the subject.” Sherlock says this with an air of finality and goes back to looking at the photographs. John notices that he is visibly tenser than before.

John frowns. _That was...odd, is he upset?_

“Sherlock, are you upset that I-”

“No.”

John nods. Good.

“Ok.”

Sherlock ignores him and instead continues to examine a photograph, soon putting it aside with a focused wrinkle on his brow.

John knows he should let it go. Sherlock being Sherlock, if he really doesn’t want to share something...England would fall before he did so. However, the doctor and friend in John are telling him that there is something bothering his friend. And in the back of his mind, John can’t stop thinking about that text Mycroft sent....every instinct in John’s body is telling him something just isn’t right here and he has to do something.

“Sherlock-”

“Stop.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say!” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows it isn’t true. It is Sherlock after all, consulting detective and bloody mind reader extraordinaire. Sherlock’s look at John confirms it.

“John, there is a case I need to focus on. If you would forget all your _annoying_ and unfounded worries I would _very much_ appreciate it.” Sherlock says this in an almost bored tone of voice with a wave of his hand; dismissing John. “Let. It. Go.” Sherlock accentuates these last three words very crisply.

John suppresses the urge to growl in frustration. _Be calm._

“Sherlock, you had a night terror. You’re my friend, I-” John pauses in what he is about to say, Sherlock narrows his eyes. John quickly catches himself and continues; somewhat different than he would’ve if he hadn’t stopped himself...a part of him doesn’t know why he did, saying he loves Sherlock is hardly new information. “I can’t just let that go.” John reigns in whatever anger or frustration he feels as much as he can, speaking as compassionately as possible. The memory of Sherlock last night, shaking with fear flashes through his mind. Sherlock makes no indication that he even heard John, but he must have. “There is something wrong or going on that you’re _not_ telling me.” A twinge of John’s anger seeps into those words despite John’s restraint.

“Brilliant deduction.” Sherlock mutters.

_A confirmation? Or scorn?_

“I saw that text from Mycroft last night.” John looks at Sherlock firmly.

Sherlock freezes. The atmosphere in the room upgrades from simply tense to a place coiled and ready to explode with something much worse. Sherlock lifts his head slowly to face John again. His eyes are dark, laced with hot fury, with something else John suspects Sherlock is desperately trying to hide. John doesn’t shrink back, but he is regretting mentioning Mycroft. Sherlock’s brother is never a happy topic of conversation, but this...what _is_ this? It only proves that Mycroft is definitely a part of whatever the _hell_ is going on. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

The closest John can compare Sherlock’s current expression to is when they were sitting in front of the fireplace during the Baskerville case.

“ _Leave._ ”

_What?_ John’s mouth parts in shock, mainly because he wasn’t expecting _that_ response. Sherlock is staring at John, unrelenting. John notices that Sherlock has a photo gripped too tightly in his hand.

“Sherlock-”

“You’re distracting me from the _work_. Since you are being hardly useful, or quiet, I am telling you to _go. Now._ And leave me _alone._ ” Sherlock has those icy merciless eyes pinned on John.

John feels those words like a knife-wound in his gut. Logically, he knows Sherlock is angry and that he obviously pressed some buttons that triggered his friend for some reason and John shouldn’t take it personally. Unfortunately...

“Sherlock! _What the bloody hell is going on?!_ ” John growls and pushes himself quickly out of the chair; hands shaking.

A flash of pavement, dark, curly hair soaked in blood flickers in John’s vision. John doesn’t have time to be confused at why that particular image showed itself.

Eyes never leaving John, Sherlock drops the photograph and stands up also; slowly, unfurling like a predatory cat tensing to pounce. Sherlock moves close to John and looms menacingly over him.

“John. If you do not leave now, I promise you will regret it _._ ” Sherlock’s face is only inches from Johns, those sea green eyes speaking volumes about how much Sherlock means his words.

John bristles, pushing past Sherlock with a firm shove to the other man’s shoulder.

“Fine.”

He quickly exits the living room (grabbing his coat along the way) and walks (stomps) up the stairs to his room. He gets dressed quickly, eager to leave the flat and get away from the very angry detective. Though he is still concerned, John wants (needs) space from Sherlock as much as Sherlock seems to want space from John. What the fuck is wrong with him? Anger, irrational or not, is taking hold inside him, causing John to pull his dark blue jumper and coat too forcefully; perplexed at the intensity of his anger towards Sherlock.

He slams the door to his room as he walks back down the stairs. He pauses briefly when he reaches the living room door.

Sherlock is standing right where John left him, except now he is staring at the photographs which scattered on the floor when Sherlock stood up; an unreadable expression on his face.

John doesn’t waste a moment more and rushes down the two flights of stairs towards the 221 exit. Distantly he hears the sounds of Mrs. Hudson moving around her kitchen; clanging of pots, the opening and shutting of an oven. Not just that, he also hears the first, faint stirrings of a violin being played upstairs...something tugs at John’s insides.

He steps into the cold air and closes the black, wooden door behind him. The sounds and smells of London assault his senses sharply. He quickly sets a steady pace away from the flat. John thinks about going to visit Mary’s grave...he hasn’t for a while. He could always talk to her, about Sherlock (when he thought he was dead), about...everything. Whether he loved her as much as Sherlock or not doesn’t matter, he did love her and a part of him will always miss her.

This thought, along with the events of the last half hour pound away against the inside of his skull.

He is only a block away when it hits him. Sherlock wasn’t just angry, no, he was bloody _terrified._ Why, John has no clue, but it was there, very evident on his face...and achingly similar to yesterday. John didn’t truly realize it until just now. How often does Sherlock, of all people, experience genuine terror? A man who disregards most emotions, and prides himself on having control of his own. Of course he would react in anger; he has reacted in anger before. Something else hits John as well, as he reviews Sherlock’s last words ( _“John. If you do not leave now, I promise you will regret it.”_ ) he wonders if that was meant to convey a double meaning, and when John saw his face before he stormed out of the flat at Sherlock’s insistence, Sherlock’s expression was less unreadable and more...petrified; his entire body was frozen.

_Shit._ A surge of guilt builds in John.Whatever John’s personal feelings, he could’ve dealt with this better, and as a rational adult dealing with a man who is emotionally undeveloped in many ways, he knows he shouldn’t have pushed Sherlock. Obviously mentioning Mycroft was not the smartest of moves. Even if Sherlock doesn’t want him there, even if Sherlock himself was being a bit of a dick, John should at least apologize. He still doesn’t want to go back though, John really feels like he needs some air and space to think. Space will probably do them both some good.

John pulls out his mobile and begins typing.

_I’m sorry.  JW_

John holds the phone in his hand and continues walking. Two minutes later he receives a reply.

_There is no need to apologize John. SH_

John sighs. Well, that’s good enough for now. As John slips his phone into his pocket, he hears another _ding!_ signalling a text.

He pulls out his phone and glances at the text.

_Pick up some nicotine patches before you come home. SH_

John sighs deeply with a faint smile. _Home._ He puts his phone in his pocket and continues walking.

_Maybe I will go visit Mary’s grave after all, just for a little while._


	5. Chapter 5

John returns to Baker Street a couple of hours later, after having visited Mary’s grave (he brought her a bunch of white roses) and picking up a box of nicotine patches on the way back home. A funny thought occurs to John, never, during the years of Sherlock’s absence did he refer to anywhere as _home._ It was always, ‘where I live’, or ‘back at the house’. Even when he was married, nowhere felt like home to him. It was as though he was doomed to perpetually live a form of bizarre guest or nomad existence, moving from one cheap flat to another (so long as it _wasn’t_ 221b Baker Street, he stayed there for a while after Sherlock...died, but it didn’t take long for John to feel suffocated by the past. So he left...the decision was definitely of the cliché phrase ‘a rock and a hard place’, John chose the latter), and then to the place he shared with Mary. It was only, all that time later when he finally, finally moved back into 221b, did a form of tension release. The same feeling one has after being away from home for years, or even just days and then comes back to it; pure, indelible _relief._ That feeling of coming home, John admits, had less to do with the flat and more to do with the man who had been standing in the middle of the living room...as if waiting for him.

John feels a sense of déjà vu when he opens the living room door of 221b, seeing Sherlock standing in that same spot, in the middle of the room. Except this time he isn’t watching the door, Sherlock is rigidly still and facing towards the window; judging by the way his arms are bent, John surmises that Sherlock has his hands resting against his mouth; thinking. He makes no indication that he heard John enter (this isn’t unusual), and John can’t see his face.

John doesn’t say anything for a moment and takes a cursory look around the room, very little has changed except the wall to the detective’s right. He notices dozens of crime scene photos pinned to the wall above the sofa (high enough that they cover the spray painted smiley face and various bullet holes); some placed in an obviously organized way, and others simply taped as if it were an afterthought. Knowing Sherlock though, there is probably a system to the chaotic collage, there always is. 

  “How’s the case going?” John interjects as he slips off his coat and lays it over the back of the armchair beside the sofa. He still feels ill at ease about what happened earlier, but for now he’d rather put it behind him and not continue to dwell on it. However, John’s concern at seeing Sherlock ill at ease himself, and afraid, a number of times in the past 24hrs, will continue to be there both strong in the present and on the fringes of his mind, because of this John is looking at his friend with a critically focused eye.

Unless something else happens, for now John will (along with Sherlock) focus on the case; an unusual serial killer case to boot, should be enough to keep the both of them occupied and Sherlock’s mind stimulated for at least a little while.  There isn’t much else he can do, clearly talking and trying to get Sherlock to share (let alone something that clearly is shaking his control) about what’s going on is about as successful as getting an immovable brick wall to turn into a pile of daisies. The man is bloody impossible... _just one of his many charms._ John isn’t all that shocked really to note that the thought was _not_ a sarcastic one.

Despite all of that, John still feels a heavy weight in stomach; more commonly known as ‘being unsettled’. There’s something about this whole situation, the case, Sherlock and however the fuck Mycroft is involved...has John feeling more than a little on edge.

“I have confirmed that the actual murders were committed by two different children, most probably kidnapped.” Sherlock says so low John almost doesn’t hear it.

_“Oh my god.”_ John whispers. He walks forward a little closer to Sherlock.

 It was one thing when Sherlock mentioned it before, a passing theory, but to hear Sherlock say it with such conviction, and Sherlock is rarely wrong... _children._

Sherlock appears to shrug.

“This fact however is currently secondary and inconsequential, the one who has – is, for he most certainly will force another child, a different one if the current pattern continues to stand, most likely a boy 10 to 12yrs of age, to kill again – been orchestrating these murders is an adult male, early to mid-thirties and it is _him_ we need to focus on. I’ll need to go to Barts shortly to analyze some samples I took from the crime scene we visited yesterday. I’ll also need to re-examine the body, I have a theory that needs confirmation regarding him and the perpetrator, which was further supported by the information the Homeless Network delivered to me while you were temporarily absent. Unfortunately I’ll have to make do with looking at Molly’s autopsy report for the first victim instead of examining him myself; they released the body once they had a _suspect_ in custody. Idiots.” Sherlock speaks in one, long exhale and he’s still standing before John, facing away from him; still as ever. The only real oddity is that Sherlock didn’t speak with the same...case-induced enthusiasm.

John is taken back, incredulous. He heard the majority of what Sherlock said, but his first words are throbbing loudly in his head. John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at his friend’s cold callousness and immovable, often compassionless logic anymore, but there are still times when...especially when it’s children.

“The fact that children are being used to kill people is not _bloody inconsequential!_ ” John shouts, his tone simmering. “How can you just...” John sighs. “You’re talking about innocent _children._ Finding them is _just_ as important as catching this maniac responsible for the deaths of these men.”

Sherlock is silent. He turns his head slowly to the side and looks at John with an impassive expression.

“Finding the ‘maniac’ as you so eloquently put it, is what will lead us to the children I am certain. Logically, it follows that we focus on _him_ first _._ ”

John, though still angry, exhales in defeat. As heartless as it may seem, Sherlock has a point. And though it may seem otherwise to others, and to John at times to (he is only human after all), John knows that Sherlock’s apparent callousness is not out of a desire or intention to be unfeeling or cruel.

Sherlock is watching John with those incredible eyes, flicking quickly across his features; observing the many emotions that must surely be showing on his face. Something in Sherlock’s expression changes, a subtle shadow appears behind his eyes and a faint crinkling of the skin creases his brow. John crosses his arms and waits for Sherlock to continue as he suspects he will.

 “John, it would serve you well to disregard your compassion and empathy for the time being, lest it cloud your judgement and observation of the _facts._ ” Sherlock’s monotone echoes loudly in the otherwise silent flat. He then turns back around to face the window. “It will make this more...difficult for you.”

John is shocked at the abrupt difference in Sherlock’s voice; small... a whispery undertone. Very much _not_ Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John takes a step forward and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock throws Johns hand off violently and whips around; a scorching fire in his eyes.

_“Do. Not. Touch. Me!”_ Sherlock growls out each word with a menacing snarl; his body shaking.

John automatically backs away with his hands raised in surrender. What _was_ that? There is a scary similarity to when Sherlock had a night terror, but this time Sherlock is definitely not asleep. Several theories bounce around in John’s head as he observes the distraught detective, mainly ‘why would Sherlock react so violently?’ he never has before.

“Sherlock.” John says firmly, but not at all aggressively. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The fact that Sherlock doesn’t react with an ‘of course’ and a derisive snort proves that something is indeed wrong here.

His friend doesn’t move, his stance and demeanour remain unchanged; however Sherlock’s eyes have narrowed and are pinned on John as if assessing a potential threat.

“Sherlock...” John says calmly, his heart pounding.

He risks a step towards Sherlock....which turns out to be a big mistake. Sherlock reacts immediately and rushes towards John with incredible force; immediately pinning him to the door with one arm across John’s chest and the other tightly gripping John’s wrists and pinning them firmly above his head. John gasps in surprise and suppresses a groan of pain when his back hits the door handle.

Even though his soldier instincts are telling him to defend himself, another gut feeling is telling John to not introduce more violence into this situation. Until his life actually becomes in danger, John will choose to remain still.

Sherlock’s face is scarily close to his own; John finds he is unable to look away from the dark eyes, burrowing into his own with alarming fear and anger ( _what is going on?_ ). Both men, breathing heavily and with hearts racing for more than one reason, stare each other down with incredible willpower.

John feels a painful twinge in his shoulder caused by the awkward position Sherlock has restrained him in. John grimaces.

At this moment Sherlock seems to come back to himself. His eyes widen and he releases John and stumbles backwards; looking down at his hands as if they’ve started oozing acid.

“Sherlock?” John repeats, very quietly and careful not to move for both his sake and Sherlock’s. All thoughts of anger, confusion and _‘what the bloody hell is going on?’_ are pushed aside at the sight of his friend looking so...lost.

“I am...sorry. John, I...” Sherlock, a man normally eloquent and sure, falters through his words; shock and surprise evident in his voice.

John doesn’t know what to say. He ignores the ache in his shoulder and dull pain in his back from the door handle and takes a deep breath. He looks at Sherlock, dozens of questions firing inside his head _‘Sherlock, talk to me!’, ‘Sherlock, what the hell is going on?’, ‘What was that?!’, ‘Sherlock, are you ok?’, ‘Sherlock, you’ve been on edge ever since the crime scene. You had a night terror for god’s sake! Please, tell me what is bothering you!’_ among others. Which one to ask?

“I think it would do you some good to get out of the flat for a while. You said you had to go to Bart’s right?” John slowly begins to move, careful to stay in Sherlock’s line of sight, towards his coat that he’d laid down earlier. Seeing that Sherlock is still very much frozen, staring incomprehensibly at his hands, John moves all the way and grabs his coat. “I doubt you’ve eaten all day, or yesterday, stubborn git. So, how about we eat out? I know you don’t eat while you’re on a case but if you would humour me this once, I’d appreciate it. While we do that, you can tell me what else you’ve figured out about the case and I’ll do my usual ‘conducting of light’ and what not, then we’ll go to Bart’s together.” John says simply with a kind smile, allowing a smidgeon of fond sarcasm to integrate into his voice when saying, ‘conducting of light’. 

John takes out the box of nicotine patches from his coat pocket and places it on the nearest table. He then pulls his coat on and turns back to look at Sherlock. The detective has straightened out of his previous slightly hunched over position and has his eyes closed; hands hanging limply by his sides. Sherlock gives the barest nod. John frowns slightly. Though satisfied with this response, it isn’t like Sherlock to assent this quickly. John clasps his hands loosely and leans against the doorway.

“Well, I’ll wait for you right here. You may not mind prancing about London in your dressing gown, but I would rather forgo that particular eyesore.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John; his eyes back to their usual, constantly observing, unblinking gaze...though vestiges of shock still linger in his irises. He flicks his eyes all over John’s face and body, focusing on his wrists and middle. It would be difficult for anyone who doesn’t know him to notice, but John can clearly see the signs of genuine remorse on Sherlock’s features (sociopath my arse) ...it is rare enough that John is sure of what he’s seeing.

Sherlock steps towards John and reaches out his hand slowly, John doesn’t move and watches with some surprise as Sherlock reaches out and lifts up the edge of John’s sleeve right above his wrist. He pulls it back and looks intently at John’s wrist. John can see faint, finger shaped bruises already forming there. From the look on Sherlock’s face, he can see them too. The detective inhales a quick, sharp breath as he eyes the bruises. After a few seconds, he releases John’s sleeve and his entire face shutters into yet another blank expression. Sherlock turns away from John, quickly striding past him with an even gait towards his bedroom.

John looks in the direction Sherlock disappeared to for a few moments before turning back and resting a palm to his face. He takes solace in the brief moments of his friend’s absence to breathe, thump his head back against the wall, close his eyes and _think_.

_I don’t like this. Whatever...this is._ John sighs, a whole explosion of emotions afire within him.

It doesn’t take long before Sherlock re-enters the area; coolly composed, wearing his deep purple shirt and coal black suit. John opens the door to wait while Sherlock dons his long coat, scarf and gloves. The whole time he’s doing that, he never once looks at John.

Sherlock walks over to his makeshift experiment laboratory that – unfortunately – doubles as their kitchen, and picks up a few little baggies John hadn’t noticed before, along with his mobile that had been laying on the table as well. Sherlock pockets them and strides past John, immediately descending the stairs. 

John pauses briefly, taking a moment to gather himself before he exits also and closes the door behind him.

He reaches the outer door of 221 to find Sherlock is holding it open for him, a cold November wind rushes inside and John shivers. He gives Sherlock a small smile and walks out. He hears the door shut loudly behind him.

Sherlock, all long legs, billowing coat and curly hair twirling in the wind, walks past John and reaches the road first; he stretches out his arm to hail a cab.

Not a word is spoken as the two of them stand side-by-side for a few moments while they wait for the taxi to pull up. John with his hands clasped behind his back and looking at Sherlock sideways, and Sherlock staring fastidiously forward; still eerily silent. The silence is worrying John more than anything.

A cab pulls up and Sherlock slides in first, John doing so right after.

“St. Bart’s-”

“Angelo’s-”

Sherlock and John speak at same time to the cabby. They look at each other with mild surprise, John giving Sherlock his most intimidating stare, and Sherlock giving one just as unyielding.

“What was that lads?” The cabby, an older gentleman, speaks loudly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John quickly cuts him off.

“Angelo’s.” John says this without taking his gaze off Sherlock. He finishes by giving the cabby the address.

Sherlock sighs with exasperation and an almost inaudible grunt. John thinks he hears him mutter ‘infuriating transport’, and John quirks a small smile; a ball of tension in him releases at the minute sense of normality (well, what constitutes as normality in their lives) that begins to return to Sherlock and the two of them despite the violence of what just happened. Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. Almost immediately he begins typing, his focus now elsewhere.

“Right away sirs.” The cabby, awfully cheerful, immediately pulls away from the curb.

It is hardly a long walk to Angelo’s; so the cab ride will be even shorter.

John leans back in the seat with a satisfied groan and closes his eyes.

“John?”

John’s eyes immediately snap open at the sound of his friend speaking his name. John looks to his left to see that Sherlock’s eyes have not left the screen of his mobile (John is once again reminded of that threatening text from Mycroft), but his face is frowning.

“Yes?” John says.

Sherlock presses a button on his phone and re-pockets the device. He turns to look at John, and John notices his right hand has fallen from his lap and is lying on the seat between them.

“Thank-you.” Is all Sherlock says.

John’s brow raises – it isn’t common to receive a genuine thank-you from the detective – but he smiles gratefully.

“Anytime Sherlock.” Sensing that this time the gesture won’t cause a violent reaction, John reaches out and tightly squeezes Sherlock’s hand once. Sherlock glances down at their hands, looking vaguely surprised, just as John pulls his away.

The two of them simultaneously turn to look out their respective windows; neither of them say another word during the short taxi drive to Angelo’s.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Sherlock, predictably refused to eat anything at Angelo’s _‘digestion slows me down’_. However, John managed to convince him to eat a quarter of his own lasagna (with great reticence).

What Sherlock primarily did was recant to John all his current theories regarding the killings. John nodded, frowned and widened his eyes in awe where appropriate, and occasionally said one or two things that earned Sherlock’s approving and pity the idiot smile.

Overall, John was exceedingly grateful for the detective’s return to his usual demeanour. Although John has a feeling it won’t last.

The only hitch in the otherwise enjoyable conversation – well, as enjoyable talking about the murders and kidnappings of children can be – was a text Sherlock received. Judging by the look on Sherlock’s face when he glanced at it (tense, a small, sharp inhale and an angry grimace) it was from Mycroft. At the time John was careful not to say anything, but he really, really wanted to ask Sherlock again what was going on. And the knowledge that the detective would either seize up again, or just ignore him, made John feel nauseous and caused him to spear his lasagna a little harder than necessary...which, now that John thinks about it, was a strange initial reaction to have. _Whatever Mycroft is doing...threatening his own brother? Anything is possible I suppose._ The thought caused John to clench a fist and feel an unnecessary – at the time – urge to physically shield Sherlock from whatever twisted power play Mycroft is playing at...John is still bitter towards him about the whole fiasco with Moriarty and Sherlock.

The question is, is that because John is angry that he would betray his own brother? (Which John found out later wasn’t initially part of the plan, but Sherlock found a way to make it work to his advantage over Moriarty once he found out) Or is it because that Mycroft knew, all along, about Sherlock being alive and never told John? That Sherlock would tell his brother (a tenuous relationship at best) and not John? Whatever Sherlock’s reasons, and he has told them to John, a part of John still hasn’t gotten over the fact that Sherlock trusted _Mycroft_ to keep his secret but not _John_.

It only took about a few seconds for Sherlock to roughly put his phone away, mutter something intelligible, and turn back to John. All previous expression of discomfort or whatever Sherlock was feeling (never easy to tell) gone and he returned to his explanation. John was a still a bit tense from the thoughts that had been swirling around his head, but he focused instead on the sound of Sherlock’s voice, slowly building with energized excitement from the case, which Sherlock is calling an intriguing diversion. The actual killings themselves are ‘obvious’ and ‘easy’ to deduce Sherlock said, however the precise motive and the history of the man behind them are unclear and summarily interesting. Further proof that if one wants to keep an easily bored consulting detective occupied, find him a serial killer and John won’t have to deal with guns going off at three am or finding your only pair of dress shoes covered with green, fuzzy mold _‘a vital experiment John!’._

From what John could gather from Sherlock’s explanation, several of his initial theories from before arriving at the crime scene still stand. The dramatic set-up and recurring crime scenes, identical down to the last detail (exceptionally so). The use of a child murdering an older man and several other miniscule facts that quite frankly went right over John’s head and caused him to say ‘brilliant’ for the millionth time since he met Sherlock. Also, the fact that to Sherlock it is obvious that the motive behind the crimes has nothing to do with the victims (the selection is most likely random, however Sherlock also noted that though the victims themselves aren’t being targeted for who they are, they are being chosen for what they are), this suggests that the killer is recreating a similar event from the past (most likely from when the killer was a child) that the perpetrator is deeply, psychologically traumatized by and the level of preparation required also suggest that the killer is likely to have psychopathic tendencies. That possibility wasn’t at all difficult for John to believe.

Sherlock even made a few observations about the furnishings, they were outdated though not antique and also a high quality, this also contributed to Sherlock’s deduction that the man is in his early to mid thirties, possibly older but no more so than forty.

Sherlock also intimated to John that there is an element to this case that is eluding him, an aspect he is certain is important but can quite place. And he is positive it has something to do with the interesting choice of murder weapon (John is curious about that as well, a statue of Norman Bethune? Very odd), which is too specific to be a coincidental choice and is more likely a personal one; related to the event the perpetrator is traumatized by. Sherlock seemed unusually frustrated at this point while he was speaking, and it didn’t escape John’s notice that an expression similar to when Sherlock saw the murder weapon for the first time passed over his features and was quickly shuttered shut by long practised control. John had been on the verge of asking again what was wrong, but Sherlock had quickly continued to speak and John was effectively silenced. Sherlock noted that one of the most intriguing aspects of the crime scene was although the furniture was out of date, it had been recently constructed.

What Sherlock had obviously been looking into with the Homeless network was information on the second murdered man. He had been spotted two days before he was found dead.  Sherlock’s theory is that the man orchestrating these murders is from outside of London and is coming into the city to find victims and commit the crimes there. When Sherlock told John this, he thought _‘good, that should make it easier to locate him’_ , Sherlock seemed to notice this on John’s face and gave him a placating and skeptical look _‘not necessarily’_ it read. Sherlock needs more data to confirm his theory. He mentioned to John that if the samples he took turn out to be as fruitful as he predicts, and if he finds what he expects to in the autopsy report of the first victim and on the body of the second, then it could give him a picture of where this man could be hiding, which is most likely the same place where he’s keeping the children.

At that point John had asked whether he’d informed Lestrade any of this. Sherlock said ‘ _I texted him, told him to look for any missing persons reports on two boys, likely to have disappeared within the last two to three weeks. Probably a third as well’_ and that was all. John had asked about the third, and Sherlock went on to say that unless the true killer finds whatever validation he is seeking and fulfils his goal he will continue to orchestrate these kidnappings and subsequent murders.

At the mention of the children, John felt a rush of anger and determination to get this case _solved._ One thing he has never gotten used to in the many crimes he has accompanied and assisted Sherlock on, was when children were involved, especially as horrifically as this. Whatever Sherlock’s primary motivations, John is proud of him for using his brilliance and incredible powers of observation to help people and bring about justice to those that deserve it, instead of becoming someone like Moriarty; John never thought he actually would, and as uncanny as some similarities between those two were, the ultimate disparities between them made all the difference in the end.

Sherlock and John discussed all this and more (well, Sherlock talked up a storm and John mostly listened), throughout their meal at Angelo’s and in the cab ride towards St Bart’s. This is where the duo is now, in the morgue/laboratory Sherlock typically occupies when he’s at Bart’s.

Sherlock is bent over the body of the same victim the two of them saw yesterday, examining the man’s feet with a brow furrowed in concentration and focus. He’s already looked at Molly’s autopsy report for the man and apparently Sherlock had contacted her the night before and asked her to refrain from washing the victims feet when she performed the autopsy.

John is standing beside him, protectively; watching Sherlock with a wonderment that has never ceased. Seeing him work is a very captivating experience. Sherlock isn’t the only one he is focused on though, John is looking at the body as well, his medical knowledge cataloguing whatever stands out to him about the man and how he died. John doesn’t see anything about the body he didn’t notice yesterday.

 Molly is doing her own work, and keeps glancing back to Sherlock and John often. It was she Sherlock texted when they first entered the cab, to let her know they were coming and to have the autopsy report of the first victim ready for his perusal.

“John.” Sherlock says without breaking his focus on the body.

“Yes?”

“Your close physical proximity is distracting.” Sherlock gestures with his hand vaguely in John’s direction.

It is then John notices exactly how close to Sherlock he’s standing, they’re practically hip to hip.

“Right, ok.” John nods and makes a quick decision to go over and talk to Molly while Sherlock works. “I’ll just leave you to it and go talk to Molly for a bit.”

Before John can do that, he feels a large hand reach out and grab his arm from behind. John stops and looks at Sherlock with confusion. Sherlock is no longer bent over and is standing instead; gazing at John firmly. John frowns and flicks his gaze down to the connection of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.

“John, I didn’t ask you to go.” Sherlock says, looking at John with confusion as well.

“But, you just said I was distracting you.” John continues to frown.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, I did.” Sherlock looks exasperated as he lets go of John’s arm. He turns back to look at the body.

_O...kay?_ John scratches his head briefly, that was...weird. _Enigmatic as ever._ John sighs and crosses his arms casually, deciding to stay put.

John, now a few feet away from his friend, watches as Sherlock lifts up the victims foot and smells it; his eyes widening briefly, a small quirk of a smile gracing his mouth. John sees Molly out of the corner of his eye look slightly horrified. John snorts with amusement.

“So, have his feet told you anything?” John asks.

“Yes. I believe so.” Sherlock looks pleased. He then walks around the autopsy table, pulling off the blue latex gloves as he does so, and reaches over to briefly flick the autopsy file (laying open on the empty table right next to the very much not empty one) of the previous victim.

Sherlock says nothing more as he strides past both John and Molly, proceeding to exit the room. Molly and John look at each other briefly, neither look surprised at Sherlock’s abrupt departure.

John fully intends to follow him, but first. “Thank-you Molly.” John says with a smile, walking up to her and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Molly smiles demurely. “Oh, you’re welcome John. I’m glad to help!”

Just then, they hear the door re-open and a confused looking Sherlock pokes his head back in; he looks briefly between Molly and John.

Sherlock cocks his head in the direction of the lab. “Come on John!” Sherlock did say he had a few samples to test. “And you as well Molly.” Sherlock adds, exiting the room once more; letting the door slam behind him.

John wonders if Sherlock will ever master the basic social nicety of politeness...John snorts.

 Molly and John quickly exit to join the detective in the lab.

Sherlock speaks up the second they enter.

“Molly, I need your help here.”

Molly immediately walks over to join Sherlock. John leans against the door for a few minutes, watching the two of them interact; preparing slides, Sherlock gazing down the high-tech microscope and glancing over to the equally high-tech computer, and Molly passing him a new slide every few seconds.

 John feels a bit useless just standing here, but he is well aware that this area is not where his usefulness as official blogger to Sherlock Holmes truly shines. Still, he does enjoy watching him work. And it is interesting to see the change in dynamic between Molly and Sherlock, which has been different since his return. Sherlock is...well, John wouldn’t necessarily say nicer, but less dismissive than he used to be. And Molly is less enamoured. John was never given full details, from either of them, but he is certain whatever Molly did to help Sherlock for those years, changed their dynamic in what John would consider a positive way.

John quickly pushes away the memory of those horrible, empty years, and brings his attention back to the present; the case. Just in time too, Sherlock suddenly gives a sharp breathy exclamation, which usually indicates another light bulb has just clicked inside that mind of his.

“Like I expected, interesting.” Sherlock is looking at the monitor intently.

 John walks over.

 “What have you found?” John asks, looking at the screen also.

“The confirmation to my theory, though I didn’t really need it. Obvious. Still, it’s helpful to know.” Sherlock slides off his stool and dons his long coat while fervently speaking to John. “I have confirmed from smell, gravel and soil samples taken from the victim’s feet, footprints from the crime scene – most likely left behind from the perpetrator – and what knowledge I graced from the first victim, that both of them were taken from an area on the outskirts of London. The first victim lived within the same hundred square kilometer radius as the second victim. This suggests that the killer is indeed currently residing outside of London and coming into the city – albeit not very far, to find his victims and build the furniture. The evidence points to him doing this within the buildings in which the victims are found, far away from any major civilization, less a chance of him being overheard. He does a uniquely good job cleaning all sign of equipment. Moving the materials and equipment needed to accomplish all that without being sighted would’ve been slow and difficult. Because of where the victims themselves were from, the children will have had to come from the same area as well. The killer is choosing the outskirts of London to select his victims and have them murdered in the city because it is the part of London closest to him, and why he is bothering choosing London at all instead of somewhere even closer is because he clearly wants to attract attention; the attention of someone specific here in London. He has been very careful about not leaving evidence behind as to his whereabouts outside of London, though I am confident with a little more time I can figure that out, give me a day. On the other hand this man has been painfully obvious with his activities in London, leaving evidence behind as to what has been doing and where, carelessly. Too carelessly. Therein lies the desire to ensure he attract the attention of someone here and for a particular reason. Someone related to these crimes, very intimately probably. Additionally, the murderer is 5ft 11inches tall, relatively well muscled, and has been institutionalized – probably in a psychiatric hospital, not prison – for several years at least and was released within the last year. This should make it easier to find out his identity.” Sherlock recites all this in his fast speaking “deducing voice”; he takes a breath and fires off a quick text.

“Amazing.” John says, breathless; pretty much his involuntarily response to Sherlock’s deductions that make it seem like the rest of the world really is full of idiots. Molly is biting her lower lip a little, trying to restrain a smile.

Sherlock’s lip curls into a smile for a brief moment.

“Hardly.” Sherlock shrugs. “Though I suppose to the average mind...” Sherlock mutters.

“Ha ha, yes, my mind is average! What is new?” John says acerbically, although he’s really just teasing.

Sherlock, obviously, knows this and laughs minutely. John tries to look put out. From the look on Sherlock’s face he’s clearly failing. “I texted Lestrade, letting him know to narrow his search for the missing children to the specified area. I’ll investigate any London, or London area psychiatric hospital records myself.” Sherlock picks up his scarf and ties it around his neck. “We’re done here for now.” Sherlock slips on his gloves. “Thank-you for your assistance Molly.” Sherlock nods in her direction and begins to stride towards the exit.

 “Anytime!” Molly calls out quickly.

That’s another thing that has changed, Sherlock rarely used to thank her, not genuinely at least or when he only wanted something from her.

John, still in his jacket, follows him.

The otherwise silent room suddenly echoes with a surprisingly loud buzz. John notices Sherlock stop abruptly, before reaching the door, and pull out his phone. John pauses beside his friend and notices the phone buzzes again in Sherlock’s hand.

 Sherlock quickly looks at the first text his received, his eyes narrow perceptibly and his jaw clenches. From this angle John can just see Mycroft’s name flash on the screen.

_Oh no, not bloody Mycroft again!_ John growls and resists the urge to call the bugger up and demand to know what the hell is going on. His mind rings with the strongly implied (alright, not so implied but most definitely there) threat that came with Mycroft’s last text, and John automatically moves closer to Sherlock. John briefly expects Sherlock to move or say something, but he is standing very still.

John looks up at his friends face. His expression has changed from one of clear frustration and annoyance, to one of cold blankness. His entire body is tense and his eyes are closed. A pang in John’s chest reminds him of the similarities to what has been happening.

“Sherlock what’s wrong?” Molly asks, also looking at Sherlock with concern. She walks towards him, John holds up a hand to stop her. She nods.

_Yes, what’s wrong?_ John frowns deeply, concern radiating throughout his head and body.

“Sherlock.” John says quietly. His first instinct is to place a hand on his friends shoulder, but given his violent reaction earlier, John restrains himself. There is something new in Sherlock’s demeanour, it’s as if he’s fighting something...it must’ve been that second text. John’s focus immediately goes to Sherlock’s phone, the one his friend is currently holding too tightly.

John reaches out and his hand hovers above the phone. “May I?” John asks. He _has_ to know. Whatever is happening with Sherlock is deeply unnerving and John doesn’t know what to do.

Sherlock’s eyes flash open at John’s request, he immediately looks at him; his gaze shielded, yet very, very intense...and dark, narrowing in John’s direction. John’s brow creases even further. John has long stopped being intimidated by that look, he was in the army after all and has lived with this man for years, but it still affects him; he’s just much better at not showing it now.

“Sherlock.” John repeats, quietly; resisting the urge to scream until Sherlock tells him what the hell is going on. In no way would that be helpful, but John can’t help but feel angry and frustrated by all this, so much so that John is wondering if there’s something wrong with him.

Sherlock’s face morphs, almost immediately all emotion is cut off from his expression; the only indication of any distress is in the tenseness his body. Without moving his eyes from John’s – Sherlock seems almost glued to John’s face, continuing to stare at him, even without the dark look – Sherlock moves his hand very quickly and holds his phone up to John’s face.

John immediately looks at the screen, the sender merely indicates ‘unknown’, but John is quickly drawn to the simple, five words bright on the phone screen; a cold and angry shiver runs through John’s body as he reads it.

_It’s been a while Sherlock, how are you feeling? Remembered yet?_

Whether it’s instinct or living with Sherlock for all this time, either way John _knows_ that this is from the perpetrator. The one responsible for all this. Another, even colder shudder runs through John as he ponders the meaning in those words...it wouldn’t be the first time a psychotic maniac has tried to grab the attention of Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh bloody hell, this man _knows_ you!” John says through gritted teeth.

“Evidently.” This one word is spoken by Sherlock in an eerie whisper.

“How?” John didn’t mean for that to come out sounding accusatory, but it did.

Without giving his phone one another look, Sherlock fiercely pushes it into his pocket. Sherlock is either ignoring John, or he didn’t hear what John said. John suspects the former. “How Sherlock?” John repeats, gentler than before, but the anger and pain in his tone is obvious. _I do not want to go through this again._

“I...don’t know.” Sherlock says, sounding more confused than John has ever heard him. That alone is eerie. “Yet.” Sherlock adds.

It is on the tip of John’s tongue to say _“How can you not know?”_ but one look at his friend proves that he really, truly doesn’t know. Or if he does, he’s doing a bloody good job at hiding it. Sherlock’s immense acting abilities don’t discount that as a possibility. Even so, John is intimately familiar with a Sherlock that’s acting and a Sherlock that is being genuine. Often the latter coincides with his friend’s particular brand of arrogance or odd interpretation of basic social niceties, but on rare occasions, Sherlock will display real symptoms of vulnerability, and even rarer still, compassion. Humanity.

Right now, if John could pick one word to describe how Sherlock appears, he would pick vulnerable...This is startling for Sherlock Holmes, which is why he is desperately trying to hide the fact that he feels painfully vulnerable...and doesn’t know why.


	7. Chapter 7

The cab ride back to Baker Street was a painfully silent one. John tense, his hands clenching repeatedly, Sherlock sitting statue still the only way Sherlock Holmes can, one hand laid on the seat beside him, an elbow resting on the window frame; the same hand resting unceremoniously against his mouth. Though there was nothing casual about his demeanour. His eyes were narrowed and fixed at some point distant from John’s visual sphere, in his Mind Palace probably. He barely seemed aware of John and the cab. John tried to ask him questions, about the case, about the text, about anything, but Sherlock was unresponsive; withdrawn into his own world.

 So John just let him think, but also thought that whatever was going on, Sherlock needed to know he wasn’t alone and John was damn sure going to tell him that.

_Could this be some bizarre form of sympathy pains? Sherlock seems emotionally distressed and lacking control so now I do?_ John tried very hard not to punch the cab door in frustration. He succeeded, and soon the two of them arrived back at 221b Baker Street. But not before Sherlock received another text. John held his breath, half expecting it to be from the killer again. It wasn’t though, Sherlock read out the name when he saw it (whether that was to reassure John or himself is debatable) _“Lestrade”._ After he read the text, it was as though someone electrocuted the detective. His eyes widened, his mouth parted and his entire body became a coiled spring. He growled.

John was about to ask what it said, but that was when they arrived at the flat and Sherlock had bolted from the cab. Again, leaving John to pay the cabby.

Afterwards, John hurried after the detective.

Now in the entrance hall, John can hear raised voices, very loud, very angry voices...or rather, one very loud and angry voice – definitely Sherlock – and another more reasonably toned voice, but still loud as well.

“ _Sherlock! This isn’t my doing, and if you would listen-”_

“ _I will not allow **you** or my meddling brother to bully me off this case!_ _Your attempts to do so are really quite pathetic, not to mention futile. I would think you’d want to dwell pitifully on the fact that your wife is once again having an affair, with...ah, with a police officer in your department, a much younger sergeant-”_

“ _Oh for the love of - ! It’s bloody impossible talking to you. Do not bring up my marriage. Sherlock, try and listen to me and allow me to finish what I was about-”_

Wasting not a minute more, John rushes up the stairs, heart pounding, and bursts into the living room. The voices abruptly stop, and the two men, standing face to face, turn their gazes on John. Sherlock is fuming, and Lestrade looks incredibly frustrated.

“Having a bit of an argument?” John asks as he slips off his jacket. Sherlock’s expression is one he often gets when annoyed with someone either repeating their selves or stating the obvious. Lestrade sighs deeply and rolls his eyes. “How about we all calm down, if we can-” John gives Sherlock a pointed look. Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, the dark halo of his curls making the look appear all the more intense, and then turns away. He collapses onto his armchair in a full Sherlockian sulk. “I’ll make some tea-”

“Of course John, _tea_ , the ultimate solution to any problem.” Sherlock mumbles.

_Says the man who served tea to bloody Moriarty like he was the bloody queen._

“-and Greg, you better tell us exactly why you’re here...Before Sherlock loses it again.” John finishes as if he didn’t hear Sherlock. On the surface, those words sound flippant, but inside John is feeling anything but. He overheard Sherlock saying something about Lestrade and Mycroft trying to prevent him from pursuing this case? _Why?_  John figures he must have iron strong tolerance to be able to deal with the strange behaviour’s and intricacies of the Holmes brothers, even when he doesn’t really understand them.

“Good idea John. Alright, like I was trying to say, your brother, much creepier than you by the way-” Sherlock snorts at that. “-contacted me...by phone, by text, by bloody car...” Lestrade trails off, his tone growing faster and more agitated. John raises a brow as he flips the kettle on, subsequently preparing three mugs. Sherlock can grouse all he wants about tea; it’s obvious he loves the stuff. “He told me, in very strong, borderline threatening terms, that I was to restrict all your access to the case and tell you it was under-”

“Mycroft knows that there’s nothing you could really do to prevent me from pursuing a case, he must be trying to use whatever sentimental attachment he thinks I have to you to discourage me from this case. Pointless. Since his attempts at doing so traditionally have failed, he must really be desperate to resort to such...inane tactics.” Sherlock speaks low and fast, sitting up straighter in his chair, both hands rhythmically tapping arms of his chair with those long, violinist fingers.

“Oi! Let me finish will you?”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re taking an _awfully_ long time explaining yourself; do get to your point. Quickly.” Sherlock bites off the sentence with a hard, impatient tone of voice.

John sighs. The rude abruptness isn’t new, but... _he is definitely not ok._ The kettle boils. John pours the steaming water into the three mugs laid out on the counter before him.

“As I was saying, Mycroft said there would be disastrous consequences if you continued involving yourself with this case. The man really can be almost as scary as you Sherlock.” Lestrade says as he sits on the edge of the sofa.

John smiles briefly, but that quickly fades as the first part of what Lestrade said sinks in... _Disastrous consequences_...Is that even true? Or, is it just Mycroft exhibiting his Holmesian dramatic tendencies? Considering the way Sherlock has been acting, not to mention the night terror, John is undecided.

 He picks up two of the mugs and walks out into the room.

“Ha, I have no trouble believing that.” John says as he puts down Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table in front of him. He walks over and hands the other mug to Lestrade; he accepts it with a grateful smile and a thank-you.

“You told Mycroft you’d think about it...” Sherlock says. John turns to look at him. He has his eyes intently focused on Lestrade, suddenly his expression turns into one of surprise. “Ah, but you don’t intend to follow his instructions.”

“No, I fully intend to tell him to shove it and if he wants to prevent you from working this case, he can do it himself.” Lestrade says this with absolute conviction, looking at Sherlock with a deep frown. “I need you – and if you say anything smart about the ‘oh so typical inadequacy of the police’ so help me god Sherlock I _will_ punch you this time.” Lestrade holds up a hand as he sees Sherlock open his mouth to speak.

John can’t help it, he sniggers, half because of what Lestrade said and half due to Sherlock’s indignant expression. Now armed with his tea, he sits down in his own armchair directly across from Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffs and eventually turns his gaze to John, watching him with wide open eyes. John looks at him with a curious frown. Sherlock shakes his head, leans forward and picks up his tea; he takes a sip.

“The bottom line is, I do need you on this case, but I have to know what the hell is going on.” Lestrade’s tone is similar to that of a parent trying to get information out of their rebellious child.

_I would love to know that too,_ John thinks.

 “No, you don’t.” Sherlock’s tone brooks no argument. It sounds like Sherlock is saying this in response to Lestrade, but his gaze is focused primarily on John.

“Sherlock-” John starts to say.

“No.”

“Sherlock, what-” Lestrade starts to say.

“No.” Sherlock repeats, firmer than before. Lestrade sighs. John looks on at Sherlock with mild disbelief. Sherlock’s gaze is merciless, and this only serves to irk John even further. _There is definitely something Sherlock is not telling me...and why does this bother me so much?_ It’s not as though Sherlock hasn’t kept secrets from John before. He is painfully reminded of Sherlock’s “death”.

Sherlock appears to be reading this on John’s face. The detective frowns. Without turning his face away from John, Sherlock continues to speak. “You’ve also come because you have information on the missing boys. Rather quickly I might add, good on you inspector.”

And just like that, the focus of the conversation abruptly turns. Probably for the best, John thinks. John turns to face Lestrade, Sherlock leaps out from his chair and stands in front of the inspector; looking expectant.

Lestrade sighs and stands up. “I do have information yes.” He takes out several (far too many) pieces of printed, folded paper stapled together from inside his jacket and hands them to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes them with a steady hand and begins to pace while methodically looking at the pictures and descriptions of the reported missing boys.

John stands up and moves closer to Sherlock.

He really _hates_ it when children are involved. Considering what they’re being used for in this instance, and god knows what else, John is eager to get this maniac either behind bars or at the barrel end of his gun – should the need arise.

“Sherlock has narrowed down the location of where the boys likely have come from.” John looks pointedly at Lestrade.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

“Really? Good, I mean of course he has. What else have you figured out?” Lestrade directs this question to the both of them.

Sherlock continues to look through the pages of children that have gone missing within the last few weeks, making noises of frustration and discovery as he continues scanning the pages.

“John can tell you.” Sherlock murmurs. He takes a break in his pacing and lays out a few of the papers on the desk, looking at them with the usual fervour of being on a case.

“Ok...” John glances at Sherlock briefly in surprise.

“Alright then, what have you got?”

John turns to Lestrade and begins to relay to him all of what Sherlock has told him.

John has just finished his likely inadequate reiterating to Lestrade, when Sherlock...

“Aha! These are the three.” Sherlock holds up three different pages.

“So it is _three_ that have gone missing...” John says sadly, his voice tight with anger.

“You’re sure?” Lestrade moves towards him.

“Of course. This also indicates the man responsible for all this is planning on killing again, soon. Obvious. ” Sherlock holds out the three pages to John.

He takes them and sure enough, all three of the children were from the same general vicinity the two victims were from; the outskirts of London. All of them in age range Sherlock had lain out before. One two weeks ago, another a few days later and then most recent one was yesterday. John really hopes Sherlock catches this guy. _Soon._ He hands the pages back to Sherlock.

“Alright, I’ll have my people look more into it and see if we can find anything.” Sherlock snorts derisively; Lestrade ignores him and continues speaking. “Thank-you Sherlock.”

Sherlock hums and glances over the pages once more before handing all of them back to Lestrade.

“We’ll tell you the minute we know more.” John says, placing a friendly hand on Lestrade’s shoulder.

“Probably not, but eventually.” Sherlock corrects, walking to stand once more in front of the photographs; his hands poised beneath his chin and his eyes scanning the pinned up visuals.

John rolls his eyes.

“Make sure you do.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock firmly. Sherlock ignores him, and John gives Lestrade a vaguely apologetic look. “Well, I’ve got to go. Take care Sherlock, John.” Lestrade nods at the two of them and pats John on the shoulder once.

John escorts Lestrade to the door and he notices the inspector give Sherlock a parting glance of concern before exiting.

With an almost inaudible click, John closes the flat door. He turns around to face Sherlock, finding the detective staring once more at the photographs, this time with a look that would most definitely cause normal mortals to run away screaming.

“Sherlock seriously, why is this man contacting you?” John crosses his arms and moves to stand beside Sherlock; keeping his eyes locked on the detective. He watches and Sherlock reaches down picks up a small box from atop the coffee table, the nicotine patches. Sherlock opens it with a practised hand, takes out two patches, and proceeds to place them on his left arm. He drops the box. John takes a deep breath to continue. “You must know more than you’re letting on. The text made it sound like he’s _met_ you before.”

Sherlock whips his head around to face John, and if possible, his friend’s eyes darken even further. He doesn’t say anything though, just stares at John; his eyes flickering over John’s face. John doesn’t move and, quite determinedly, stares back.

“Not necessarily. If I have met this man before, it seems I have deleted the memory. This leads me to conclude that whatever possible encounter happened between us was both a long time ago, and personally, essentially insignificant. The only way in which he matters now is this case, the _work_ John. Serial killers, commonly they are a most intriguing paradox of fascinating and boring predictability.” The look in Sherlock’s eyes changed almost imperceptibly, and oddly, when he spoke. John swears it was almost false confidence that Sherlock quickly tried to hide. An uncertain Sherlock Holmes is both fascinating and scary (not to mention concerning, especially in this context), not unlike that strange serial killer paradox Sherlock just mentioned.

Once again, John wants to ask him if he is ok...because clearly he is feeling...something. Something he doesn’t know how to handle. And John is feeling increasingly frustrated that he doesn’t know exactly what. Still, there is a case to be working on, one that involves murder and kidnapping.

 If only John could separate his own personal feelings from what has to be focused on; namely, solving this case.

John can certainly try... _how long that will last?_ Especially since Sherlock came back, John’s personal feelings and protectiveness have been very intense regarding the detective...that alone has John dwelling more than he wants to.

Sherlock seems to sense this and gives John a sharp nod, his expression shuttering into something slightly more innocuous. He takes off his coat (before that point he’d never taken it off since entering the flat), hangs it up on a hook by the door and walks over to his laptop on the desk. Sherlock sits down in the chair and opens up the laptop.

For a minute, John just stands there; watching Sherlock (his fingers flying fast across the keys, eyes darting around the screen, intermittently making hums of interest, victory or grunts of disappoint). John wonders what he can do to help and as he watches Sherlock, he wonders what is going on inside that colossal brain of his.

“If you are quite done staring at me, John, I would like your assistance here.” Sherlock declares loudly, his focus never shifting from his laptop screen. If John looked closely, he would see the briefest of smirks being made by Sherlock’s mouth.

John is taken back, both by being caught out (not really surprised about that, this is Sherlock after all) and the abrupt change to Sherlock’s tone; amused, almost smug, a far cry from his voice a few minutes ago; which was dark, and monotone.

He shakes his head and sighs. _Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the mood swings at this point, bloody sod._

“Alright, what are you looking up?” John asks, walking over to sit opposite Sherlock, eager to help.

“Various psychiatric hospitals in London, a few seem promising.” Sherlock mumbles. “If you would, research past cases – solved and unsolved – for anything that bears similarities to the current case. It could provide valuable information.”

“You think this man may have done this before?” John asks, logging into his own laptop.

“No. However he may have been a witness or perpetrator – in some form – to a crime similar to the ones he is committing now. And if this man really does know me, it might’ve been a case I was involved in, though that’s highly unlikely. If it were, it couldn’t have been very interesting. Either that or it was something that occurred during my years using Cocaine. Again, I find that highly improbable. However, at this point, there are many avenues we can explore that may just turn up something useful. For now, the most promising is a past event which may have been reported in news papers, likely within the last thirty years. Take advantage of the internet John, luckily there are old newspaper databases online. Or it could also have been a case – before I became involved with NSY and started working on cases in general – that occurred within the same time period. Exclude all possible search results for those in London.”

John quirks a brow.

“Not London? And why...?”

“This man has been kidnapping boys and forcing them to kill older men by a single blow to the head using a very specific bust. Not only that, he is recreating a very intricate and specific bedroom-” Sherlock flicks his gaze away at those words, a pained frown appearing between his eyebrows. “-and building the furniture within the same space. All of this, he is doing in London. And yet he is residing outside of London? Sure it could be that he believes it would make it easier to not get caught, however, the constant moving back and forth, instead of choosing a place nearby would make it even more likely for him to be spotted. This man is not an idiot after all, not in the same way as everyone else is. The behaviour of this suggests that wherever he is currently staying, holds some manner of significance. Ere go, the event that is in some way related to these killings - and this man- must’ve happened outside of London. It is his primary motivation.”

“A motivation that involves you apparently.” John points at Sherlock briefly before logging onto the internet. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. “So, just...search for any reported crime that bears any resemblance to our case?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock makes a few more quick taps on his keyboard.

“Outside of London is a fairly _large_ area Sherlock.” John says. He could be sitting researching thousands of reported crimes for days.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation.

“I suppose you need me to spell it out for you.” Sherlock’s tone suggests this is a great grievance to him, however he doesn’t sound surprised. John isn’t sure which one to be more insulted by. “Just in the counties directly north of London, I can’t provide an exact distance, but not so far away that it would take more than a couple hours of travel by car.”

John nods. _Well, at least that narrows it down a little._ He pulls up the Google search engine and begins typing.

A few moments later he sees Sherlock narrow his eyes for a split second at the screen. “I’m going out to make some inquiries, stay here and continue researching. Text me if you find anything.” Sherlock then whirls out of his chair in a dramatic flourish. He heads over to where he recently hung his coat.

John frowns and turns around abruptly in his seat, opening his mouth to speak. “I’d rather go alone John.” Sherlock says quickly, John closes his mouth. “I’ll text you as well if I find anything, and if I happen to require your assistance.” Sherlock, now with his coat framing his tall, lean body, slips on his gloves and scarf while continuing to look at John. 

Sherlock rarely announces when he’s going out, the arrogant sod either just does it and assumes John will follow, or he’ll leave and not make any sign of wanting John to come along. Within the last several months, John has noticed Sherlock has taken to doing the exact opposite...John still hasn’t gotten used to this form of consideration that doesn’t involve Sherlock giving John a few minutes warning that he’ll be using some form of John’s wardrobe for chemical burn experiments. He is torn between being grateful or confused. Often times it’s both, although Sherlock still seldom tells John exactly where he’s going. Really, John doesn’t expect him to.

“Ok.” John nods slowly, an unbidden rush of worry (egged on by the events of the past two days) urging him to follow Sherlock anyway. Ridiculous, he is a grown man and Sherlock can take care of himself...well, kind of.

Sherlock’s focus on John becomes more acute after John mutters that singular ok, those eyes so intense and magnetic drawing on John’s facial expression and likely making deductions as to what John is feeling. He looks calmly back at Sherlock, trying to ignore the worry churning with persistence in his stomach. Even though Sherlock is acting fairly in character, there is something not quite right that is setting John on edge. As though Sherlock were fighting some inner battle and having a difficult time not being able to quash it completely.

Sherlock inhales sharply and looks at John with his ‘tis a frustrating pity I am surrounded by fools’ look. Immediately John tenses, sensing that something is about to come out of Sherlock’s mouth that he definitely will _not_ like.

“John, your feelings are causing you to feel...sentimentally concerned by this idea you have that I am in apparent turmoil. Absurd. I need your assistance with this case, if whatever _feelings_ you are so determined to dwell on will get in the way of that; I suggest you make an attempt at deleting them or ignoring them altogether, otherwise you will be useless to me and I’ll have to solve this on my own. I can obviously do that of course, logically I don’t ever _need_ your help.” Sherlock spits angrily.

He opens the 221b living room door and marches out without a further word or glance at John; the sounds of his footsteps fading as he makes his way down the stairs, and eventually the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut echoes loudly. Poor Mrs. Hudson.

It’s not something John hasn’t heard from Sherlock in some manner before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. _A bit not good Sherlock...Bastard._

John’s body is extremely stiff as he turns back to his laptop, resting his clenched fists on either side of it. He breathes deeply, trying to reign in his anger, also trying not to acknowledge how close to the bone Sherlock hit with that last sentence, let alone how bloody ridiculous his other words were.

One of the things that weighed on John the most when he arrived back in England after being wounded in Afghanistan, was that he would never be able contribute in anyway; his leg, his shoulder wound, his intermittent tremor, to name a few issues he had. Essentially, he would be useless. But then he met Sherlock...and his life went from grey monochrome to a dangerous, vigorous, never boring life. A life in which he felt useful to the genius in some capacity, he had purpose. However, it never escaped John’s notice that with Sherlock, he could accomplish pretty much all they do together on his own. Sometimes, that makes John feel as though he’s merely window dressing. That feeling was only intensified when Sherlock left him behind in the dark while he faked his own death and put John through hell as a result.

John must be insane, because despite all that he doesn’t love Sherlock any less. And however “sociopathic” his friend may be, he is certain that Sherlock cares for him as much as the detective is able to...which makes it feel even worse when Sherlock effectively insults him (whether that’s his intention or not) and his usefulness in what John firmly believes to be important work, and John’s understandable concern for him. John has learned to accept, tolerate and even embrace all aspects of Sherlock though. They are part of who he is, and truthfully, John loves him for it...and therein lays the insanity. Still, that doesn’t prevent John from feeling angry with the detective.

John sighs. Sherlock is right about one thing, dwelling on all this isn’t helping anyone. Still figuring he can do something, John continues his research.

At that precise moment, John hears his phone signal an incoming text. John leans back slightly to pull his mobile out of his trouser pocket.

 

_Even though what I said is true, it doesn’t mean I don’t nevertheless want your help or that I don’t value what you do._

_SH_

 

John snorts, a very faint smile on his face. _Bloody git._ That’s about as close to a real apology or sentiment that Sherlock will likely ever get. John types out a short response.

 

_Good._

_JW_


	8. Chapter 8

About an hour later, John is still researching the internet via his laptop. He’s made very little progress, but has come across two potentially promising reported murders that kind of fit the criteria (similar to, but not quite the same).  A father who was killed by his son – 13 years old – after two blows to the head by a blunt object, 20 years ago, and a supposed accident of a man who fell off the roof (John tried very hard not to cringe when he read that) of a triplex, but there were inquiries around the possible involvement of a young boy (age not disclosed), mostly because there had appeared to be a previous wound to the head that was shaped oddly similar to a statue that was on the boys bedside table at all times. However, the line of questioning never went far and the death was ruled an accident.

John sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair and massaging his neck offhandedly. Overall...yeah, he hasn’t gotten very far.

John has yet to hear from Sherlock, and he wonders how the detective is getting on. Has he found a promising lead? John hopes that if that were the case, Sherlock would’ve upheld his promise and contacted him. Still, John wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he forgot.

Just as John leans forward again to continue searching, he hears the sound of slow footsteps making their way up the stairs that lead to the living room door of 221b. John doesn’t have to wonder for very long who it is when there’s a loud holler from the other side.

“Yoohoo! I brought up some tea and biscuits for you boys, with homemade jelly I made last week.”

_Bless Mrs. Hudson._ John smiles warmly and immediately gets up. He quickly opens the door.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson.” He holds out his hands to take the heavily laden tray from her.

“Oh sweet boy I’m not that old yet! I can carry a tray, but thank-you for the gentlemanly offer.” Mrs. Hudson trills with a pleased smile, walking right past John – with the tray still in her hands – and into the kitchen. She sets the tray down, giving a dubious glance at an old stain on the table.

John doubts there is a woman alive that is made of stronger stuff than the ineffable Mrs. Hudson, to have lived – and continue to do so – in the same building as Sherlock all these years.

John follows her into the kitchen; the wonderful smell of fresh biscuits wafting into his nose.

“Mrs. Hudson, you are a wonder.” John gives her a sideways hug and fond kiss to her cheek.

“You’re very kind John.” She pats him lightly on the cheek and then claps her hands together lightly. “Now, where has that man of yours run off to?” Mrs. Hudson asks with a fond smile.

John can’t help but return the same smile. The way she loves Sherlock so unconditionally, not at all afraid of him nor afraid to give him a scolding when she finds new bullet holes in her wall, is really great to see.

“Looking into possible leads for a new case.” John gestures to his open laptop, and then reaches down to pour the tea. “Would you like a cuppa?” John asks.

“Thank-you dear, I suppose I have a few moments free! Would love to join you.” She nods and pulls out a chair to sit down on. “He’s always adventuring isn’t he? Even here at home!” She laughs good-naturedly.

John laughs too. “Oh definitely. I wouldn’t say no to some peace once in a while though.” John shrugs, cracking a wry smile.

Mrs. Hudson nods knowingly. John hands her a cup of tea, she takes it with a grateful nod. John then sets about to prepare his own cup.

“You wouldn’t change a thing though. Would you dear?” Mrs. Hudson, ever the wise woman, rests a gentle hand on John’s arm.

John sighs. “Not a thing.” _Except maybe less jumper sacrifice in the name of science._

“Neither would he, I think. He is so much happier when you’re around. He was so quiet before you moved back in. And when he wasn’t quiet, he was screeching away on that violin of his. I worried about him. Not as much now though.” She smiles in John’s direction.

John tenses briefly at her words. They have talked about this before. It is never his favourite topic, and generally he wishes to avoid it. Right now is no different. He quickly finishes making his tea and sits down across from Mrs. Hudson.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead acknowledging her words with a slight nod. John blesses Mrs. Hudson again when she continues on with no further comment about the time before John moved back in.

A few minutes biscuits later though, Mrs. Hudson asks a question that has John tensing again.

“Is there something wrong with Sherlock, John?” Mrs. Hudson asks with a worried frown.

Not wanting to elaborate on the many circles he has gone around on that very same question, he simply asks, “What makes you say that?” He can’t help but speak with a similar note of concern that Mrs. Hudson did.

Mrs. Hudson rests her hands lightly on her cup of tea and looks at John.

“I was heading out to the shops earlier, and came up here to ask if either of you boys needed anything. I don’t think you were home. When I came up, the door was a wee bit open, I walked in and was about to announce myself when I saw Sherlock shaking and clutching his stomach, the poor dear.”

If John’s attention weren’t wholly focused on Mrs. Hudson, it certainly was now. John automatically leans forward. Both friend and doctor instincts taking hold.

“What happened? What else did you see?” John asks quickly, cup of tea now forgotten.

A sad expression takes hold of Mrs. Hudson’s face, and John suddenly feels his concern ramp up several notches.

“Well, he didn’t seem to notice me at first. I immediately went over to him, but before I could reach him, he looked at me and he...” Mrs. Hudson pauses, looking off to the side momentarily. For a second John wonders if Sherlock got violent with her like he did with him, the thought horrifies him for a moment, but then Mrs. Hudson continues. “He seemed very frightened for a few seconds, and then he went and sat in his chair, looked at me and asked, very Sherlock like ‘Is there something you need Mrs. Hudson?’ He seemed ok then. But I asked him what was wrong anyway, and he just waved me off and said ‘don’t be absurd’. I didn’t believe him though, I still don’t. I was wondering if maybe you knew something...?”

John sighs, this new information not sitting well with him.

He rests his head in his hands, and just then he hears the scraping sounds of Mrs. Hudson pushing her chair back and getting up. A few seconds later, comforting, motherly arms place themselves around his shoulders.

He sags into her embrace, allowing himself a few moments of comfort.

“I don’t know Mrs. Hudson, something is off, he won’t tell me anything and I just...” John growls in frustration and wipes a hand down his face.

“I understand dear, let me know if you need help with him ok?” Mrs. Hudson offers kindly.

John sighs again.

“Thanks.” He says.

“No problem, I am always willing to help either of you out. Just don’t expect me to clean up after you all the time; I’m not your housekeeper after all.”

John smiles briefly at the regularly repeated phrase of hers. She kisses him lightly on the top of his head and gives him a playful pat to the shoulder. “Well, I best be off now.”

She makes her way to the exit. John quickly stands up and follows her.

“Thank-you for the tea Mrs. Hudson. Your biscuits are one of the few things Sherlock will eat, I’ll be sure to give him some.” John tries to smile casually, but his conversation with Mrs. Hudson has caused a slight panic alarm to go off in his head.

Mrs. Hudson giggles.

“Oh that boy, he really should eat better! And you’re welcome dear, thank-you for the company.”

John nods.

“I agree.”

“Well, take care dear. Let me know how Sherlock is doing alright?” She asks.

John doesn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

Mrs. Hudson nods and exits the flat door. John closes it gently behind her.

_What the bloody hell is going on with that man? Mrs. Hudson said he was clutching his stomach, is he sick?_ John groans and pushes himself towards his laptop; determined to work more on the case.

A few minutes later, John opens up a site filled with archives of old reported newspaper articles on murders and accidental deaths that happened over 20 years ago. He begins reading the various articles...man found dead, drowned...two men found beaten, one survived, the other died due to severe head trauma...a lawyer fell down the stairs of a client’s home and died instantly...a man found partially decomposed with a cracked skull in a ditch...

Suddenly, the internet disconnects and John loses the page.

“What the hell!”

John tries to reconnect...nothing. John frowns and tries again...nothing. The internet won’t bloody connect! John pulls out his phone and tries to connect that way...nothing.

_What the hell?_

Just then, John’s phone rings in his hand; signalling an incoming text. John quickly opens it.

_Did you just lose the internet?_

_SH_

 

John laughs sardonically.

 

_I’m not even going to bloody bother asking how you know that._

_JW_

 

_I’ll assume that means you did._

_SH_

 

_Yes._

_JW_

 

_I am going to MURDER Mycroft. The internet on my phone stopped working a few minutes ago. I’ll be back shortly._

_SH_

 

_Mycroft._ John frowns angrily. _Of course...bloody Mycroft!_ Who else could shut off both the internet in 221b and Sherlock’s and John’s phones simultaneously? The question is...why?

The case! It has to be related to this case, he basically threatened Sherlock with...something if he didn’t stop working on this case. And now that talking to Lestrade hasn’t worked (smart move not even bothering to talk to John...yet) and whatever other methods he’s executed, he’s actually physically interfering.

_What else has he done?_

John suddenly feels even angrier than he did before, at both Mycroft and Sherlock. Though both for entirely different reasons.

John flips down the lid of his laptop forcefully and begins pacing, anxiously waiting for Sherlock to arrive back home...and to ask him, once and for all, what the bloody hell is going on.

_Oh save me from the Holmes brothers._

 

***

 

It is barely even 10 minutes before John hears the familiar, hard pounding footsteps of his flatmate quickly ascending the stairs. John can tell before he even enters that the threat he made earlier about murdering Mycroft isn’t far off from being genuine.

The door into the living room is flung open with a long bang and Sherlock strides in radiating anger. John takes in the appearance of his friend, his pale skin reddened by the cold, his hair wild from the wind, and his face even wilder and twisted with fury.

“What is-” John begins to ask.

“I COULDN’T GET ANYWHERE OR DO _ANYTHING!”_ Sherlock yells. “BECAUSE OF _HIM!”_ Sherlock gesticulates wildly with his arms and begins pacing back and forth across the room; his coat a mad follower to his loud, pounding footsteps. Peripherally John wonders how long it will be before Mrs. Hudson shows up to ask what’s going on?

Sherlock rarely gets quite this angry, even when Mycroft is involved, something really bad must’ve just happened.

John, feeling that remaining the eye in this particular storm would be the most helpful for them both, breathes deeply and puts on the calmest air he can manage...even though he is feeling very angry himself. 

“What else has happened Sherlock?” John asks.

Sherlock angrily discards his gloves and begins fiercely grabbing and twisting his curly hair as he paces.

“What’s happened? WHAT’S HAPPENED?” Sherlock throws his head back and laughs  manically. John takes a step to...to do something, but is abruptly stopped by Sherlock nearly running into him. “MYCROFT BLOCKED ALL ACCESS TO EVERY SINGLE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL OR INSTITUTION I TRIED TO INVESTIGATE! IF THE DOOR WASN’T “MYSTERIOUSLY” _LOCKED_ -” Sherlock spits. “-THE STAFF REFUSED ALL ATTEMPTS AT COERCION!” Sherlock’s voice seems to grow only louder as he continues to vent his anger. John stands off to the side, watching his friend with a melding worried and angry eye ( _fucking Mycroft_ ), and god forbid anyone have the gall to refuse Sherlock’s usually successful coercion attempts...the sarcasm in John’s head falls flat at the sight of his friend’s distress.  “AND EVEN WHEN I MANAGED TO DISTRACT THEM ALL, idiots, THEIR COMPUTERS WERE LOCKED OUT TO ALL MY ATTEMPTS AT HACKING THAT HAVE NEVER FAILED ME BEFORE! MYCROFT IS DETERMINED TO KEEP ME FROM PURSUING THIS CASE! HE EVEN SHUTS OFF THE INTERNET!” Sherlock stops in his pacing and turns to face John. John is momentarily taken back by the pleading look in Sherlock’s eyes...this isn’t just anger, Sherlock looks like a man who has been betrayed, denied knowledge that is essential to his survival...or in Sherlock’s case, more likely to the preservation of his mind, which to Sherlock is very much the equivalent.

John doubts whatever Mycroft did or could do, would provoke a reaction like this unless there was something else going on in Sherlock’s mind. “WHY JOHN?! WHY DON’T I KNOW WHY?!”

_Ah._ Sherlock not being able to understand something...Sherlock would be _more_ than distressed over that.

John breathes deeply. In the distance he hears a door open and close.

“I don’t know Sherlock, I really don’t.” Without thinking, John reaches out to rest a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder...only to have it violently thrown off and Sherlock to stride forward until his face was a mere inch from Johns.

“I don’t want or need your _sympathy_ or _comfort_ John.” Sherlock speaks very low; his voice no longer a yelling angry tone, but one of dark menacing scorn. “I. Want. Answers.”

John lifts up his hands in mock surrender.

“Ok, ok Sherlock. Fine. Just...calm down alright? We’ll figure this out. We will.” John suspects his attempts at placating will hardly be effective, and he’s right.

“There is no _we_ John. There’s me, and then there’s _you._ ” Sherlock narrows his eyes forebodingly; John feels his hackles rise without a thought. “An ex-army doctor who blogs about someone else’s conquests in which your contributions are minimal at best, a man so intent on seeing something human in me that he forgets I am a sociopath, albeit a high-functioning one, and inevitably get’s disappointed when I do something he doesn’t approve of. A man with an annoyingly average mind-”

“Stop it Sherlock.”

“-who has idiotic dreams and wishes of a submissive housewife and children, and yet at the same time...” Sherlock lets his voice trail off, his look akin to a hunter seeing his prey through a scope, knowing that nothing will save it. John, whose blood had been reaching boiling temperature throughout all of Sherlock’s words ( _he doesn’t mean it, he’s just angry, he doesn’t mean it_ ), doesn’t back down and meets Sherlock’s gaze with one just as intense, waiting for the final, malicious hammer to drop. “...a man who finds himself so in love with his deranged flatmate that he _hates_ himself for it, a man who can’t even muster up the courage to go out and find the fucking wife he’s always wanted, oh wait...you did, didn’t you? Once _I_ was out of the picture. But she died on you, didn’t she? And now you have to settle for living with me again because you don’t know what else to do with your dull life-”

No matter how angry or hurt Sherlock is, John doesn’t deserve that kind of abuse from his friend. He pushes Sherlock away angrily before the man has a chance to finish his diatribe on John’s life. Sherlock, completely taken back by John’s physical reaction, lands on his arse and looks up at John with utter shock.

As long as John has known the detective, he has never been this intentionally cruel to him before.

“I don’t give a bloody, fucking shit about whatever your motivation was for what you just said to me, but how dare you...how fucking dare you speak about Mary like that! I fucking loved her you wanker!” John, his face twisted with anger bends down to the still shocked detective and grips the collar of his coat tightly; pulling Sherlock up to his face. “And how dare you use whatever feelings I may have for you against me! It seems you don’t know me at all Sherlock bloody Holmes if you truly believe half of the shit you said.” John tightens his holds on Sherlock. The shock has gone from the detectives face; instead there is that blank, calm expression again that John has no idea how to read and only serves to make him angrier. “Whatever is fucking wrong with you, I don’t know if it’s this case or if there’s something else going on in your head, I do not deserve this kind of treatment from you.” John laughs. “And I will fucking leave here, never speak or see you again, if you ever, ever repeat what you said.” Even as he says it, John knows that it isn’t true. Sherlock’s expression momentarily wavers, but once more the blank expressions falls neatly into place. His body remains stagnant under John’s vice-like grip. “I must be truly as idiotic as you claim if I can’t even say that convincingly.” He’s practically nose to nose with the detective now. “I wish I didn’t care for you, you fucking arse, as much as I do.” John continues looking into Sherlock’s eyes, anger continuing to burn through John, things coming out of his mouth he would never say otherwise, true or not.

Something in Sherlock changes when John speaks that last sentence, he looks...almost sad. For a brief second John feels his anger waver, but quickly set itself back in place. Sherlock can be a bloody manipulative bastard when he so chooses. In his anger, John is trying to not believe the sadness there is genuine, not wanting to give Sherlock the satisfaction of having got away with his cruelness.

“So do I.” Sherlock says, quietly, and resigned. He opens his mouth as if to speak more, but he closes it again and John can swear Sherlock relaxes into his grip, probably unconsciously.

John closes his eyes and turns his face away. He lets go of Sherlock and steps over his still form, grabbing his coat along the way. Without a backwards glance, John rushes out the door for the second time that day; eager to just get away.

Before he reaches the outer door, he runs into Mrs. Hudson; standing at the bottom of the stairs; her face full of fear and concern...she obviously heard their fight, at least some of it.

“John-” She starts to say.

“Don’t.” John snaps, already feeling guilty for it. He sighs. “I’m sorry."

“It’s alright dear.” She says, reaching out and touching his arm. John turns to face her, not saying a word. “He loves you too John, he does. You’re the only real friend he’s ever had as long as I’ve known him. Whatever is going on, he’s afraid and sometimes we take our fear out on others and say horrible things we don’t mean. It doesn’t give us the right to say awful things though, just...don’t leave John; I know him and I know he didn’t really mean what he said. You know how he gets with things he doesn’t understand. Talk it out, you’ll be alright. I’m here for either of you boys if you need anything, I’ll even be your housekeeper for a day if it’ll help.” Mrs. Hudson speaks with the most understanding of tones, briefly reminding John of his own grandmother who died when he was a child.

John isn’t ready to stop being angry though, he’ll probably see the wisdom of her words eventually, but right now he needs to stew and he desperately needs some air and time away from this place and most of all, Sherlock.

He does quirk a small smile at her offer though.

“Thank-you Mrs. Hudson.” He says with a small nod. He walks past her and opens the door.

Before he exits, he hears her respond.

“Anytime John, I’ll go check on Sherlock.”

John again enters the cold, outside air of London and leaves the madhouse of 221b for a little while.


	9. Chapter 9

It is several hours; a couple of pints, a long walk, a phone conversation with Greg, another visit to Mary’s grave, one to Sherlock’s – even though Sherlock has long since been alive to John and the public, his gravestone is still there, and a brief text conversation with the man himself, before John returns home to Baker Street.

The text conversation went something like this.

It was roughly an hour after John had left the flat, and though the anger and hurt wasn’t skin bursting, it was still simmering threateningly underneath. John heard the beep of a text coming from his mobile, he ignored it. Five texts in quick succession later, John finally looked. Sure enough, they were all from Sherlock.

_Did you uncover anything doing your research? For obvious reasons, I wasn’t able to find out anything new while I was out._

_SH_

_I would check your internet history myself, but unfortunately it is still not working...no matter how many angry texts I send to my brother._

_SH_

_John?_

_SH_

_Ignoring my inquiry will not help get this case solved. Don’t be stupid._

_SH_

_It occurs to me that calling you stupid would not likely endear you to respond to my pertinent work related request. I do not think you’re stupid, compared to the rest of society._

_SH_

_JOHN._

_SH_

John clenched his fingers tightly around the phone as he read the texts, clearly letting him know that he is not ready to return home. Sherlock might as well have been pretending nothing happened if his texts are any indication. John sighed....he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Still, no matter how angry he was at his flatmate, there is a case to solve.

At that point John went over in his head what he could remember and relayed that information to Sherlock in a professional and detached text.

It was barely 30 seconds later when Sherlock replied.

_Thank-you John. Hardly helpful though, none of them are relevant to the case._

_SH_

 

_Fan-bloody-tastic._ John had then frustratingly pushed his phone deeply inside his jacket pocket, making a decision to go and sit in a crowded, non-Sherlock related noisy pub for a while.

It was only after his trip to the pub that John noticed he had received two texts while inside.

_I find myself feeling...guilt, over some of what I said. It is unpleasant, and distracting._

_SH_

 

_Dr. Watson, I know my brother must be acting strangely, and I know you yourself must be feeling a lot of worry for him, much like I do. I am certain he will only come to harm if he continues to pursue this case. Your unfailing loyalty to my brother and the work he does is admirable. I would ask you though to consider his emotional state now. I think we can both agree it is getting worse. We wouldn’t want to see him in any more pain now would we? Rest assured this case won’t go unsolved. I know the identity of the man behind all of these most terrible events, and I am using all of my available resources tracking him down. Surely the reasons I have given you must convince you that Sherlock’s involvement isn’t necessary._

_MH_

 

_Damn Holmes brothers._ John made a quick decision to text Mycroft back first, at the moment finding himself angrier at him than at Sherlock.

Mycroft Holmes always has an agenda. If he says one thing, you can bet he truly means another. As much as John wants this case to be over, he can’t trust Mycroft or any overprotective, megalomaniac spiel that comes out of his mouth. That doesn’t mean he was wrong about Sherlock and his emotional state, John knows though that Sherlock would never consent to being taken off this case. Mycroft was foolish to even ask John, of all people, to make Sherlock let the case go. No one can make Sherlock Holmes do anything. He is the most stubborn individual John has ever met. Despite the anger John had been feeling at the time, despite the thoughts of what to do about the cruelty of his flatmate, John’s loyalty is to Sherlock first. Mycroft can shove it.

This is why John responded to Mycroft with only two words.

 

_Piss off._

_JW_

 

Mycroft never responded.

         

After John sent that text, he texted Sherlock back – not knowing what to say except...

 

  _If you hadn’t just said what you did in that last text, I might’ve started to wonder whether you’re a bloody sociopath after all._

_JW_

 

A few seconds later he received a reply.

 

_Mycroft texted you. What did you say?_

_SH_

 

John hesitated before responding; he started walking down the street and then sent out a reply.

 

_I told him to piss off._

_JW_

 

It was a minute before Sherlock wrote back.

 

_Thank-you John._

_SH_

 

John stopped walking then... _fuck! What do I do?_ He wondered, still feeling angry. _Guilt or not (if Sherlock wasn’t lying) how can Sherlock just_...John sighed, making a decision not to respond. Trying to understand that man would be a 24/7 job that John would rather not take.

John didn’t respond after that, and Sherlock never texted him again for the rest of the evening.

By the time John came home, he had calmed down somewhat. He was still determined to have words with Sherlock though; they were talking about this, one way or another. Mrs. Hudson had a point.

However, when John got home, he noticed he wasn’t in the living room like he expected him to be. After hanging up his coat, John had walked through the kitchen and down the short hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom.

He eased the door gently open and noticed the detective, still dressed, asleep on top of his bed; John’s laptop had fallen haphazardly off his lap and was on the covers beside him.

The peculiar sight of seeing Sherlock sleeping – especially during a case – jarred John out of his anger and hurt for a brief moment, John thought at the time that something must be making Sherlock exhausted, could be the night terrors he’s had, or something else. Or both.

 John briefly thought about waking him up, but decided against it. They could talk when Sherlock woke up.

John bent over and picked up his laptop. While he did so, his hand brushed against Sherlock’s thigh and the man stirred briefly. John froze. Sherlock rolled over and, still very much asleep, reached out an arm and rested his hand on top of John’s; becoming still once more.

John refused to think more of it, suddenly reminded of the way Sherlock twisted his feelings for Sherlock and his own life. He removed his hand.

He then slowly exited the room and closed the door behind him.

Now, a few minutes after that, John finds himself in bed and ready to sleep. However, unconsciousness is eluding him. Oh how he would love to sleep and get this bloody day over with. He does have an early morning shift in the clinic tomorrow, sleep would be glorious.

John closes his eyes and waits. Finally, _finally_ , John gratefully sinks into sleeping oblivion.

 

***

 

It is an hour later, and the loud piercing sounds of glass shattering cause John to wake up abruptly...and bang his head against the headboard of his bed.

_“Bloody hell.”_ John groans.

He barely has time to contemplate the bump forming on his head before there’s another loud crash, and then the sound of a door opening downstairs and running footsteps; probably Mrs. Hudson.

Without further thought, John leaps out of bed ( _has someone broken in? Or is it Sherlock?_ ), grabs his gun and races out of his bedroom; very much aware he is once more in nothing but his pants.

John near flies down the stairs and opens the living room door; gun drawn into the darkness, the only light coming from the...windows...

The sight before him causes John to momentarily freeze for the briefest of seconds while his mind processes the scene before him; Sherlock is standing, his arm covered in blood, in front of the tall window closest to John, now broken (likely by Sherlock himself – John notes with growing horror – if the blood on his arm is any indication), no sign of an intruder, and Sherlock is half hanging out of the window; his hands gripping the window sill tightly, even in the half darkness John can tell Sherlock is shaking and even amongst the sounds of late night London roaring from outside, John can hear Sherlock’s heavy, labored breathing...another night terror. The air rushing in from the broken window, chilling John’s very bare body, is minor compared to the fear John is feeling at the sight of his friend wounded, in the midst of a night terror, hanging out a bloody window...and pushing himself further out.

 “John dear! What’s going on? Has he-”

“Stay back.”

The sound of Mrs. Hudson’s frantic speaking causes John to throw his gun onto the sofa and rush forwards. His heart pounds with panic; all other thought or feeling gone from his awareness as John focuses on getting Sherlock away from that window. _Now._ Flashes of pavement, hair matted with blood, stain themselves on John’s vision as he reaches Sherlock and grabs him around his middle; he pulls him backwards quickly with all his strength.

He hears a muffled yelp from Mrs. Hudson as he and Sherlock tumble to the floor...with the long, surprisingly heavy detective, landing directly on top of him.

The reaction is immediate.

Sherlock frantically punches the air and kicks his legs; John ignores the painful jabs to his torso, the elbow to his jaw, and kicks to his bad leg. What he can’t ignore is the horrible screams emanating from Sherlock’s mouth as John continues to hold him tight; afraid that if he let go Sherlock would try and jump out the window again. John would rather hold him tight throughout the remainder of Sherlock’s night terror, and receive all the blows his body can take, to prevent the man from throwing himself out the window.

“Sherlock, I’m not...not going to hurt you. It’s alright...I’m...” John struggles to get these words out amongst the constant head movement of the struggling, shaking, terrified consulting detective.

“LET ME GO! PLEASE!” Sherlock cries out.

It is the first time Sherlock has spoken with words that make any kind of sense. For a second John thinks that Sherlock is out of the night terror, but the still racing pulse, frantic breathing, and shaking Sherlock quickly discount that theory.

“Sher-Sherlock dear, it’s ok, we’re here sweetie.” Mrs. Hudson, sounding quite afraid – and yet incredibly brave, speaks loudly and with a trembling calm from behind the intertwined, and struggling forms of Sherlock and John.

The words of Mrs. Hudson or John do nothing to calm Sherlock. Sherlock is incredibly strong, and the adrenaline keeping John from giving into the aches of his arms and legs won’t last forever against Sherlock’s constant thrashing.

Suddenly, Sherlock throws his head back and hits John smack on his forehead; John goes momentarily dizzy and his arms fall to his sides.

Sherlock immediate leaps off of him. John tries to ignore the throbbing in his head and gets up as quickly as he can.

 John is relieved to see that Sherlock hasn’t gone for the window; instead he has hidden himself underneath the desk, like a child, curled up in a tight ball.

John can hear Mrs. Hudson begin to cry from behind him, he gives her a quick glance to see that she is physically unharmed and turns back to face Sherlock; though from John’s current position, most of him is obscured.

Ignoring all the bruises and aching of his arms, the shooting pain in his shoulder and leg, and the pounding of his head, John slowly bends himself down to Sherlock’s level and lowers himself to his knees; keeping a close, yet safe distance away from the fear drenched and shaking man.

“Sherlock...” John whispers. His voice unexpectedly steady as he speaks, a doctor’s calm overtaking his outward senses, when inside he is surely shaking with fear much like Sherlock.

Sherlock is whimpering, actually whimpering, with his eyes distant and slightly glazed over.

 John wants to do something more, but touching Sherlock now could only make things worse, the best thing John can do is talk to him calmly and make sure Sherlock doesn’t do anything stupid. Like break a window with his arm and try to jump out of it.

 At the thought, John – with just his eyes – tries to assess the damage Sherlock did to his arm. Dozens of cuts, some deeper than others, litter the pale skin of Sherlock’s right arm. None of them look like they’ll need stitches, but there are a lot and as such there is a fair bit of blood...John is horribly reminded of the last time he saw blood covering the body of his best-friend, which turned out to be fake in the end. How John felt though was far, far from fake.

 “Sherlock dear, you’re alright.”

 John feels Mrs. Hudson kneel down beside John. For a moment John considers telling her to stay further back in case Sherlock lashes out again, which could be possible, but in a way that would be like telling a devoted mother to stay away from her terrified child in pain.

 John doesn’t know which is more terrifying to him, seeing _Sherlock_ whimpering, curled up, with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, so childlike and afraid. Or Sherlock screaming, kicking and struggling, willing – even if it’s in the throes of a night terror – to use his arm to break a window and nearly jump out of it.

 The small, wizened hand of Mrs. Hudson rests itself on John’s shoulder. John notices then that he’s not as outwardly calm as he thought he had been appearing, he’s shaking as well.

“Sherlock, whatever you’re afraid of, is not real. You’re here, home, with Mrs. Hudson and me.” John rests a hand on the floor close to Sherlock’s foot.

Sherlock doesn’t move, his eyes continuing to stare into nothingness, his breathing still fast and erratic.

“John...John.” Sherlock mutters, voice horribly shaky.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice so small, so...terrified, is enough for John to feel his heart break a little. He doubts that Sherlock is saying his name because he is aware that John is here, but John can’t deny that a part of him feels relieved to hear Sherlock say it.

John doesn’t cry very often, generally opting to keep his crying internal, so he is unable to speak as he tries to fight back tears threatening to spill.

“He’s here dear, John is here.” Mrs. Hudson says, her voice full of deep concern. “You’re strong my dear boy, you’re alright.”

“Why...why...why....” Sherlock continues to whimper.

This entire situation, everything, is painfully surreal. John never thought, ever, that he would be in this position. Trying to comfort and reassure a terrified Sherlock Holmes, ineffable and full of life, rarely afraid, mad, brilliant, annoying, cruel, arrogant, confident, possessing a childlike innocence at times, so... _human._

This is the second time John has seen Sherlock experience a night terror, logically he knows what it is and can understand in detached terms what he’s seeing, but emotionally...Seeing Sherlock like this, John is unable to fully grasp it. Everything that is happening with this bloody case, and Mycroft, is doing something horrible to his friend. If only he could stop it.

“You’re safe Sherlock, we’re here.” John says firmly, hoping that Sherlock’s night terror will end soon.

“Saved...me...John...you saved...me.”

Sherlock’s words, quietly muffled, surprise John.

“Sherlock.” John doesn’t know what to say now, except his name, quietly, reassuringly, over and over again.

It barely takes a minute; soon Sherlock’s breathing returns to a more normal rhythm. His heart rate slows, the sweat that had been pouring from his brow and soiling the underarms of his shirt begins to dry up, his eyes drift close and the death grip Sherlock has on himself slackens.

The immediate danger now passed, John leans forward; preparing to move Sherlock to a more comfortable place. Sherlock would never forgive him if John let the man fall asleep, curled in a ball, on the floor beneath the desk.

Bed or sofa? He does need to treat Sherlock’s wounds (due to how exhausted Sherlock probably is after the intense exertion of the night terror, John doubts he’ll wake up again for a while) and the bed would make it easier, on both him and Sherlock.

“I’ll make sure his bed is fixed up.” Mrs. Hudson pushes herself up, a little shakily; a faint shivering to her frame caused by the cold air swirling inside the flat.

“Thank-you Mrs. Hudson.” John huffs out. Leaning awkwardly under the desk, John wraps his arm tightly under Sherlock’s.

“No need to thank me dear, I’ll go get the first aid kit too.” Her voice is quiet, trembling slightly. “Do you need help with him...?”

“No, thank-you again Mrs. Hudson.”John groans and with a great heave of strength (his muscles protesting the weight) lifts up the consulting detective.

Sherlock, deeply asleep, leans heavily against the aching John. The latter using what adrenaline he has left to keep Sherlock mostly upright. John notices Sherlock’s legs are incredibly weak; no way will he be able to even stumble towards his room. _Damn it, only one thing to do then._

Mrs. Hudson gives both Sherlock and John a concerned glance before rushing away towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

John breathes deeply and manoeuvres the long, lanky Sherlock across his shoulders; his weight now entirely lifted, and held up by John.

John’s shoulder is screaming in pain. _Shit._

John perseveres however, and he quickly makes his way towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding a very heavy detective with one hand gripping his legs tightly and the other holding even tighter onto Sherlock’s hand.

 Its takes close to over an hour before John is able to go back to sleep, after having arranged Sherlock comfortably in bed and treating his wounds, slowly picking out with tweezers any little bits of glass, cleaning up the broken glass from the living room; shivering as he did so and nailing an old wooden board Mrs. Hudson had downstairs as a temporary seal across the broken window. John also had a conversation with Mrs. Hudson, during which John explained that Sherlock had experienced a night terror (he didn’t go into any further details) and Mrs. Hudson sniffled, gave John a hug and told to let her know if he or Sherlock needed any more help. And she’ll be sure to call someone tomorrow to come and fix the window. John and she had a short argument before she left to go back to her flat, mostly because Mrs. Hudson insisted on paying for the window herself and John’s sense of right decided that he should and not her. Of course, Mrs. Hudson being the stubborn woman she is eventually got her way. John was too tired to argue further.

After another long hug, Mrs. Hudson left and John went back upstairs. Not to go back to bed though, but to repeat what he did last night. He gathered his pillow and blanket, once again going back to Sherlock’s room and placing himself next to the sleeping detective; determined to be close in case Sherlock had another night terror.

Now, as John lays beside the silently sleeping Sherlock, he realizes how amidst the trauma of dealing with Sherlock in his night terror, John completely forgot about all the anger and hurt he feels about what Sherlock said to him. It isn’t gone though, John still feels it, it’s just less urgent now. However, the night terror, much worse than the last one, has cemented John’s determination to talk with Sherlock about what the is going on. No more putting it off, case or not, divorced from feelings Sherlock or not, the man just can’t...go on like this. Whatever John’s friend is dealing with is making him increasingly unstable and John is, admittedly, afraid. Not of Sherlock, never of him, but for him.

John just hopes that Sherlock trusts him enough to help.

Why does John feel a sinking uneasiness that he won’t?


	10. Chapter 10

Three days, two night terrors, four fights, multiple chances to progress with the case slowed by interference from Mycroft, 10 Sherlock rants,18hrs of Sherlock and John not speaking a word to each other, two nicotine patch boxes, several screeching violin sessions, two monotonous shifts at the clinic, three visits from a concerned, weary and frustrated Lestrade, Sherlock receiving texts from you know who, in which he then proceeds to disappear into his mind palace only to exit looking more agitated than ever, multiple tea and sympathy visits from Mrs. Hudson, an experiment involving Sherlock testing food spatter patterns on walls, an exhausted, irritated, frustrated, angry Sherlock that consistently refuses, to talk or share bloody _anything_ , and an also increasingly frustrated and angry John who is _seriously_ considering getting a punching bag.

Now, whenever Sherlock and John are in the same room, the potential for another fight is always a simmering possibility from just a few simple, innocuous words. Tension is smoke thick, Sherlock is a fucking time bomb, the case is a constant, unsolved ominous presence much to the restlessness of both John and Sherlock.

John feels like he’s dealing with an addict who needs help, but won’t admit he’s got a problem. However, it is far and wide a very different situation than the one he had with Harry and her alcoholism.

John finds himself at a loss. What do you _do_ in a situation like this? John has never felt this...disconnected from Sherlock before, it’s as though the man has completely retreated into himself (more so than usual) and regards John as little more than a venting wall or a piece of furniture. John is constantly shifting between his own hurt and anger with Sherlock, his own desire to protect and help him in any way he can; which John doesn’t feel like he’s achieving. He’s not accomplishing anything, Sherlock or case-wise. In other words, John feels useless; this only serves to remind him of Sherlock’s words, which are persistent in making themselves frequently remembered in John’s mind.

_Is that what Sherlock really thinks?_

_What the hell is Sherlock hiding?_

_Why does it bother me so much that he won’t tell me? What else did I expect? This is Sherlock bloody Holmes after all._

_What’s wrong with him?_

_I have to do...something, but what?_

John is tired of the never-ending questions firing off in his head.

He feels left behind, and the feeling is far too similar to how he felt after Sherlock’s death, and then finding out the truth years later.

 It’s bloody chaos. In essence, John is at war again, fighting a battle on multiple fronts. In a way, this is one area in which he’s confident, his ability to withstand all this without going _completely_ barmy.

He can’t say the same about Sherlock, which is why when Lestrade called them to let them know there had been another murder (John cursed the sick fuck kidnapping these children forcing them to murder...beyond twisted) John was undecided on what to do.

Would going to the crime scene make Sherlock worse or possibly help him in some way?

Sherlock read this dilemma quite clearly on John’s face, which resulted in another explosive argument. Of course, no matter what John said, ultimately Sherlock got his way. John is secretly relieved for the change in routine, and hopes that something at the scene will help them catch this bastard once and for all, then Sherlock and John can go back to their version of normality and all will be sunshine, bunnies, thrilling chases, teasing banter, bullet holes in walls, biscuits and candy canes...maybe.

A sense of déjà vu comes over John as he and Sherlock arrive at the crime scene; an abandoned factory this time.

 If the two of them are trying to hide the tension between them, they’re not doing a very good job. The facial expressions of the Yard police are very telling. Sherlock is either oblivious to this, or doesn’t care.

John sighs, following Sherlock into the building. Sherlock is walking ahead of him with what may be excitement and possibly anticipation. For the first time in days, Sherlock is appearing to express something other than constant agitation and frustration. It is both a comfort and a worry to John.

As they reach the door that leads into the room where the body is however, Sherlock pauses; a deep crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Something wrong?” John asks, looking up at him with a frown.

Sherlock seems to shake himself of his momentary distraction and looks down at John his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ look.

“Of course not.” Sherlock scoffs.

John sighs.

 Sherlock quickly opens the door and it crashes against the wall with a loud, gun-like bang; causing all the people (Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson and a few others) in the room to jump a little with surprise.

“Way to make an entrance.” John quips.

Sherlock gives him a sideways glance at the comment, but no other indication that he heard him. If these were Sherlock and John’s “normal” times, Sherlock would probably have acknowledged the comment with an amused smile, but as it is...the times now are anything but John and Sherlock’s definition of “normal”.

Lestrade looks between Sherlock and John curiously. Even Donovan appears slightly confused. She’s standing near to Anderson, whom is currently bent over the body; once more in the centre of a carefully recreated bedroom.

Mostly though, everyone in the room (except Lestrade) is giving Sherlock a look of suspicion and uncertainty...John doesn’t like at all.

“There is something different about this one.” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, although there is a hint of interest to his tone.

The presence of the detective is boundless in the room; he barely gives the scene a glance (although John swears he sees him wince as he does so) before walking up to Lestrade and planting himself firmly in front of him.

John briefly wonders what the difference is. At first glance, nothing seems dissimilar to the other two murders. Then again, Sherlock would notice the teensiest detail of anything, often the ones easily overlooked by others.

Lestrade nods. John walks up to stand beside Sherlock.

Before Lestrade can say anything though, Sherlock holds up his hand to stop him; his eyes roaming over the inspectors face, deducing.

Sherlock tenses for a second before speaking.

“A message was left here for me, on...the murder weapon.” Sherlock says quickly and coldly. He stretches out a hand towards Lestrade; presumably for the murder weapon. “Give it to me.”

John is amazed, though not surprised, that Sherlock figured out what the difference is so quickly. He is less than thrilled with Sherlock’s ruder than usual attitude towards Lestrade. However, what John is most uneasy about is the fact that the killer is getting even more personal with Sherlock (this has John’s hackles rising and his instinct to protect Sherlock increasing).

Somehow Sherlock is involved in all this, and either Sherlock knows why and isn’t saying anything, or he has no clue.

“Hello to you too.” Lestrade says, not sounding the least bit offended. However, like John, Lestrade is eyeing Sherlock with a concerned eye. Again, either Sherlock is oblivious to this or doesn’t care. “Sherlock, anything you could figure out for us would be greatly appreciated-” There’s a snort from Sally Donovan at this; John gives her a dark look. “-I don’t care what you have to do, just make sure this bastard is caught. Today if possible.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything; he just nods stiffly and once again motions impatiently for the murder weapon.

Lestrade and John share a glance, and then Lestrade calls Sally over; she has the evidence bag with the murder weapon in it.

“Here you go Freak.” Donovan holds out the bag towards Sherlock. She looks at John briefly and then her eyes widen, this is the first time she has seen John up close today. “What the hell happened to you?” Her hand lowers the murder weapon out of Sherlock’s reach.

Sherlock briefly pauses in his action of pulling something out of pocket; two sets of blue, latex gloves. His hands clench for a moment and a shadow of upset passes over Sherlock’s features before being schooled by chilling control once more.

Donovan points to the bruises on John’s face, still healing from that very severe night terror Sherlock had. The ones since then have been either less extreme or John was better at avoiding stinging blows by getting too close to Sherlock unless he had to. So far, Sherlock has yet to nearly throw himself out a window again.

John tries to ignore her inquiry. He doubts Sherlock would react indifferently to John telling her the truth, and quite frankly, John doesn’t want to give Sally Donovan any more ammunition against Sherlock, especially since she would be determined to assume the worst.

Lestrade has seen the bruises already. John didn’t give him any details, nor did he go into any great explanation fake or otherwise. However, John knows Lestrade is quite perceptive, and he’s fairly certain Lestrade made a few deductions of his own, the result of which was a concerned glance in John’s direction, which resulted in John shaking his head and casting a worried look in Sherlock’s direction. Enough to let Lestrade know Sherlock wasn’t abusing him. Lestrade seemed to have enough tact to know that John wasn’t going to tell him what’s going on and didn’t comment any further. He did however ask how Sherlock was doing, John had said _“He’s getting worse, and I don’t know why, I want to help but...I don’t know what’s going on”._ All Lestrade said in response was this _“He has no idea how lucky he is to have you”._

So for both his sake and Sherlock’s, John thinks up a quick lie to placate Donovan. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock quickly pull on one of the sets of gloves; the blue latex enclosing his long, thin fingered hands. The detective’s eyes appear to be flicking from John and then away towards an unseen point; his brow tighter than before.

“An unfortunate incident with a patient at the clinic, afraid of needles, clocked me a bit.” John says it with a slight laugh and what he hopes is a nonchalant grin.

“I see. If you say so.” Donovan nods slowly, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock briefly before moving to stand beside Lestrade; her hand still holding onto the evidence bag.

Lestrade is looking anywhere but at the three of them.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, his face carefully blank. Without looking at John, he hands him the other pair of gloves. Born out of routine and instinct, John slips them on without further thought.

Sherlock then reaches out again, and Donovan with a disgruntled look on her face, passes the bag off to Sherlock. He takes it and turns his focus to the statue in his hands; Sherlock acknowledges Donovan no further...which is...odd. Normally he would’ve said... _something_ by now.

Donovan watches Sherlock oddly. Sherlock ignores this, his gaze centered on the weapon (another Norman Bethune statue) and without taking it out, he begins turning it from side to side, flipping it up and down, examining it through the clear plastic.

John watches his face closely, waiting for any sign of distress like before. So far, nothing...too much nothing. John frowns. _Is this a good thing? Or a bad thing?_

The silence from Sherlock is unnerving. If the way Lestrade is scrutinizing Sherlock gives John any indication, Lestrade is unnerved too. Donovan is just sneering at Sherlock.

“I don’t see the message Sherlock, where is it?” John asks in both interest and in an effort to get Sherlock to talk.

Sherlock continues to be silent, his expression shuttered as he looks at the weapon, he quickly turns it bottom side up and holds it out to John. There on the bottom is a taped paper note; _Remember what you did._

_What? Remember what Sherlock did? That...seriously, what the hell is going on?_

“Sherlock, what does he mean?” John asks, feeling equal parts confusion and worry; opting to focus his attentions on Sherlock’s reaction and not the weapon. There is a tension around his eyes and jaw, and John notices his hands are clenched very tightly; the plastic crinkling loudly underneath his fingertips. His eyes are looking somewhere off in the distance, flickering back and forth, searching somewhere in his mind palace probably.

John acts on an impulse of the moment and reaches up a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. Without looking at John, Sherlock cringes and seems to automatically move away just out of John’s reach. John frowns and lets his hand fall.

“Yes Freak, what does he mean? Is there something you haven’t been telling us? You’ve been involved with this the entire time haven’t you? I swear to god-” Donovan speaks, angry.

“Shut up.” Sherlock interrupts and hands the murder weapon back to her. He leans forward; his face dangerously close. “I find the way you insist on yapping so incessantly, spouting ridiculous and painfully dull-witted assumptions – worthy of an officer of New Scotland Yard – extremely irritating and likely to induce brain atrophy...hm; you’re using more of your time to spend with Anderson. It shows.” The disdain and annoyance in Sherlock’s voice is clear, at odds with the unmistakably sardonic smile on his face.

 Sherlock turns around and crosses the short distance towards the body; leaving a seething Sally, and a disapproving (though not entirely displeased) Lestrade, in his wake. John watches Sherlock for a moment while he dismisses Anderson away from the body; they exchange a few words John can’t hear. Knowing Sherlock, they couldn’t have been very pleasant. John is right as Anderson looks very unhappy over at Lestrade, the latter nods and cocks his head in direction of the door. Anderson soon leaves in a stomping angry huff. John notes with faint amusement that Sherlock is smiling ever so slightly.

Well, at least he’s not silent anymore. Besides, John had been on the boiling verge of saying something similar (though decidedly less Sherlockian) to Donovan himself. She’s never gotten over the fact how wrong she was about Sherlock ever since he “came back from the dead”, her eagerness to label him guilty and a fraud is something John doubts he’ll ever truly forgive her for. You’d think, after everything, she would be less abrasive and less accusatory towards Sherlock. Donovan is a woman who definitely takes being wrong quite, quite badly.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him?” Donovan, still fuming, turns to look at John. “Don’t think for a second that I’m fooled by your “clocked by a patient” story, he’s a freak that is obviously-”

“Fuck. Off. _Sally_.”John plants himself firmly in her personal space, his entire frame shaking with the urge to not let loose all his built up anger and frustration over the past few days; his threat clear and dark in those three words.

“What are you his guard dog-”

“Oh shut up Donovan.”

Donovan freezes in her stance, looking at her boss with disbelief, and John whips his head around in surprise. Lestrade has never supported her unfair behaviour towards Sherlock, but he has never outright told her to ‘shut up’ before.

Even Sherlock is glancing over (paused in his ministrations from examining the clothing – another suit John notices – of the victim), that amused smile once more gracing his features, John notes with relief. Although if the evidence of the last few days has given John any insight into the complexities of Sherlock Holmes in the midst of great distress, it’s that it won’t be fixed by a familiar smile. Nothing is ever easy with the man, honestly...it’s one of the reasons John loves his life with Sherlock.

“Sir-”

“Donovan, you are one of my most competent officers-” Sherlock snorts here, Lestrade shoots him a look. “-but we are in the middle of a case that I want to solve as quickly as possible. Sherlock Holmes is the best option we have, if you can’t manage to display some professional courtesy, I will dismiss you from the scene.” Lestrade has his hands on his hips while speaking to her, the grey of his hair accentuating the weariness around the man’s eyes. Clearly this case hasn’t been easy on him either, or maybe, John suspects (though the two of them haven’t talked about it), that Mycroft has been hounding him as well. Honestly, John is surprised Mycroft hasn’t just locked the lot of them up, Sherlock included if he doesn’t want him on the case so badly. Mycroft isn’t quite that stupid though, however John is beginning to suspect he might eventually become that desperate.

Donovan, not looking at all happy about being chastised, nods stiffly and crosses her arms.

John begins to make his way over to the body and Sherlock.

“Good.” Lestrade gives her a nod and then stops John by placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Wait, can we talk for a minute?” Lestrade speaks with an incredibly serious tone.

John gives him a slight frown.

“Alright, what is it?” John asks.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock (Sherlock is once again focusing his attentions on the body, sniffing the body actually) briefly and then motions for John to walk with him several feet away from the detective. John trusts Lestrade, but he does tense a bit in response to what Lestrade clearly wants to talk about; Sherlock.

They walk several feet away, out of Sherlock’s direct line of hearing (although John knows that when he chooses to put to use, Sherlock has hearing akin to a bat), and then Lestrade turns to face John; still with a hand on his shoulder.

“Is Sherlock using again?” John is not entirely unsurprised by the point blank question. However before John can answer, Lestrade continues. “I know he isn’t displaying any of the physical symptoms right now, but...I knew him when he was still using drugs, and that was the last time I saw him like this in any way.”

Lestrade looks more concerned than anything, so John restrains himself from being defensive.

“No, he isn’t. He’s...I don’t know what’s wrong, honestly, I don’t. It started with this bloody case and Mycroft and....” John wipes a hand down his face.

Lestrade frowns.

“I’m sorry mate, I don’t know the details of what’s going on at home, but I want you to know, if you need help dealing with him or anything, give me a ring.” Lestrade smiles faintly and pats John good-naturedly on the shoulder before letting his hand fall.

John smiles faintly back.

“I may just take you up on that offer.”

“Make sure you give me a bit of warning first, some time to prepare my patience you know?” Lestrade says, trying to bring some light to an otherwise worried conversation between two people wondering what to do about a distressed loved one.

John laughs a little, playing along.

“Of course.”

Lestrade grins.

“JOHN! Come here.” The loud, booming sound of Sherlock’s call is unmistakable.

John sighs, metaphorically crossing his fingers that the interaction between them on this case will somehow bring them back in sync again.

“You’d better go.” Lestrade gives him a playful push in Sherlock’s direction.

As he makes his way over, John wonders; _why am I even here if he really thinks I don’t do any good? Oh right, because you don’t have a real life outside of the man. Perfect._ Normally John is surprisingly ok with that fact, he’s happier with Sherlock than he has ever been in his life, however the events of the past week, worry, anger and hurt over Sherlock have John on edge and feeling...disconcerted.

Having reached Sherlock, the detective immediately stands up and moves away from the body.

“Tell me what you think.” Sherlock says, nodding at John once and then proceeding to meander around the rest of the crime scene.

John watches his back for a few moments before leaning down to examine the body; head, hair, arms, hands, legs, feet...John frowns.

“Same as the others, blow to the left side of his skull caused a fracture that would’ve quickly led to his death, except....” John picks up the hands once more, giving the knuckles a closer once over.

“Except?” Sherlock encourages.

“This man has defensive wounds; he fought back, unlike the others.”

“Yes, likely when he was initially kidnapped.” Sherlock adds.

John continues. “He has a military tattoo, a veteran probably. It would certainly explain why he fought back, probably managed to do some damage too. He was also homeless.” John notes with a tinge of sadness.

Sherlock hums, now over by the bed, a hand (still with the glove on) lightly brushing the covers. The look on Sherlock’s face is unreadable, his body too stiff.

“What else?” Sherlock’s voice is monotone. John doesn’t answer right away, instead watching the detective carefully. “I am not going to spontaneously combust John, stop being _dull_ and continue with your observations.” Sherlock adds without even looking at John.

_It’s a crime scene. It’s a crime scene..._

John restrains the urge to growl in frustration and does indeed continue.

“The only notable difference is that this man hasn’t been dead as long, only a few hours, probably less. Otherwise...I’m not seeing anything significantly different here compared to the others.”

“A clue supposedly insignificant to the average mind can be the most significant detail of all in a complex case, _observe_ John!”

Sherlock’s voice is significantly louder now. John looks up and notes with surprise that Sherlock is now crouching on the other side of the body; staring at John intently for the first time since arriving.

John once more looks down at the body...nothing. He leans forward towards Sherlock.

“You’re obviously dying to show off, why don’t you just tell me and not insist on making me look an idiot?” The words should’ve come out, on a good day, as an annoyed, yet fond tease. However, John’s voice comes out sounding bitter.

“You’re not the average idiot John; you _should_ be able to see this. _Observe._ ” Sherlock’s voice is low and frustrated.

_Not the average_ idiot, a glowing compliment from Sherlock Holmes, and more than a little surprising given the circumstances. Maybe the rushes of new information for the case has brought some stability to him...how long will that last?

“Stop saying observe, I get it already.” John rolls his eyes and looks down again at the body.

Silence.

“John, I...”

John temporarily freezes at the unexpected quiet in Sherlock’s voice. He looks up. Sherlock is gazing at him with an unfathomable look in his eyes, a cold blanket over his face, but underneath that...there it is. That barely controlled...something, that John has noticed Sherlock trying to restrain every day since this bloody case started, even more obvious at the crime scenes themselves.

Sherlock and John hold each other’s gaze; Sherlock radiating a rare moment of insecurity, and John afraid to move.

 It doesn’t last long though. Soon, Sherlock closes his eyes and seems to shake himself of a thought. When those seascape eyes open again, his expression and demeanour abruptly change into one of impatience and carefully constructed isolation...from what?

“Look beyond what the past victims have told you, and onto what this body is telling you. There is something different; it is in _plain sight_ John, _look!_ And if you would do so quickly I’d appreciate it.” Sherlock gestures to the body, and then proceeds to rest the sides of fingers (palms together) against the edge of his chin; watching John with a detached and calculating stare. 

John narrows his eyes at Sherlock. It isn’t unusual for Sherlock to try and get John to observe something that to Sherlock is obvious.

John doesn’t know what to make of it now.

He can’t think of that now though, now is the time to focus on the case, later – every other time really – is keeping sane, while looking after Sherlock (well, trying to) time.

John breathes deep and looks down at the body, feeling a strong sense of compassion and sorrow (if he were to be honest with himself, more so than the other victims...maybe because this man was an ex-soldier, and homeless) as he does so.

He examines his legs, his back...nothing John didn’t see before. John grips the body tightly and with a great heave, turns him over to lie on his back. The many signs of several years living outdoors and on the street are evident, not on his clothes – the killer again dressed the victim in a clean cut suit – but the weathered wrinkles of his skin, and crusted dirt under his fingernails.

As John examines the front of the man’s legs up to his torso, he notices something he didn’t before, a few dark spots spattered across the front of his mid-section. John frowns and leans forward, the spots are slightly crusted, but very distinctly red, turning a little brown... “Blood, but...it’s not his.” John says with surprise.

He sees Sherlock nod.

“Obviously.”

John continues his examination and reaches the victims face...again, nothing John didn’t note before. He moves and is about to tell Sherlock as much but then something catches John’s eye. As he moves back down to look closer he sees Sherlock again nod approvingly.

There is a glob of substance on the man’s forehead, near to the temple where he was struck. It would’ve been near impossible to see when the victim was lying down. Now that he’s face up, it’s much clearer. John touches his finger very lightly to it, and it comes away slick against the latex. Honestly, John is surprised it hasn’t dried yet, must be heavy. John smells it, feeling like Sherlock for a bizarre moment.

“It’s Vaseline...that’s strange.” What the hell is Vaseline doing on this man’s forehead?

Sherlock shrugs.

“Not really, but it is informative on several points, as is the location of the blood.” Sherlock stands up, so does John.

At that moment, Lestrade walks over. He’d previously been talking to Donovan and Anderson.

“Dealing with those two will be the death of me.” Lestrade mutters as he settles in between Sherlock and John at the head of the body.

“Ah, it seems there is hope for you yet inspector.” Sherlock teases.

“Shut up.” Lestrade shoots Sherlock a look, Sherlock merely grins and looks at John. John grins back, both out of habit and because he hasn’t seen a genuine Sherlock smile flashed in his direction for days. The moment is quickly gone however as Lestrade continues to speak. “Tell me you have something Sherlock, anything.”

“I do indeed.” Sherlock dons the look he gets when about to go into one of his long, illuminating deductions. He looks back and forth across the body and points to the blood spatter. “The limited blood drops here – which Anderson, forever proficient in his job as village idiot of Scotland Yard, neglected to notice – indicates the victim was standing nearby when someone was injured, most likely by the perpetrator of these crimes. It was a punch to the jaw; the directionality, height and size of the droplets indicate it came from the mouth of a child; the one who ended up killing him.” Sherlock speaks fast and coldly efficient as always, he takes off his gloves and then pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

_Shit._ John growls angrily and clenches his fists. John really, really hopes they find this bastard quickly.

“Christ.” Lestrade tenses angrily as well, eyes narrowed on Sherlock; waiting for more. “What else?”

“The man has accomplices, I’d already suspected as much, but evidence on the victim here confirms it even further-”

“Whoa whoa _whoa!_ You suspected this man had accomplices and you didn’t think to share that? And how has this victim _confirmed_ it for you?” Lestrade gestures upwards with his arms.

John is looking at Sherlock with surprise as well. He never shared that information with John either.

Sherlock is looking at the both of them with wide, disbelieving eyes and an annoyed frown.

“ _Of course_ he has accomplices. Either that or he has _incredible_ stamina to be able to gather supplies, move them regularly, kidnap future victims, build the bedroom furniture within a short time frame and travel back and forth out of London on a semi-regular basis. It matters very little, the accomplices – four or five in total – are little more than tools, grunts, the brains in this enterprise is the organizer, the perpetrator himself. Besides, none of his goons ever leave London, everything suggests that wherever the perpetrator goes is for his eyes – and those of the boys – alone. And you honestly can’t see how I know about the accomplices? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This man, though he had been living on the London streets for years, still possessed a strong instinct to defend himself as well as enough military knowledge to fight back effectively, though unsuccessfully, against those who had initially kidnapped him. And yet, when a child was being struck in front of him he did nothing? According to the blood the man was stationary, and there are no signs of him being bound or drugged. This leads me to conclude that the man was being threatened in some capacity, whether to his own life or the child’s if he interfered, by both the murderer and the _accomplices_. The child was likely hit because he refused to kill the man, initially. The most informative fact that has come to light, is a very obvious mistake left behind by this man. All serial killers do it eventually. This one was made because of _emotions._ ” The word ‘emotions’ comes out of Sherlock’s mouth like he’s being forced to regurgitate vinegar.

In that instant, John has a flashback to his early days with Sherlock. That causes John to realize that on several occasions during the past week, ever since the case, there was been something familiar about Sherlock’s behaviour. It’s as though he’s _regressing_ in some way to his more irritable, more abrasive, even more unstable self; the way he more often was like when John and he first started living together. The comparison is only a vague one, although significant enough for John to notice. What would make Sherlock regress? John’s no therapist, he has no bloody clue. He wishes he did (peripherally he thinks Mary would’ve had more insight).

Sherlock had paused at the end of his last deduction to crouch down and point out the victim’s forehead. Lestrade is watching him closely, as is John – now re-focused on the man that has taken possession of his thoughts, more so than usual.

“This is his mistake. The perpetrator of these crimes has abnormally dry lips in the wintertime, so he wears Vaseline; heavy and petroleum based, Vaseline is very effective against highly dry skin, although it also doesn’t absorb quickly; which is why the pooled amount here hasn’t vanished yet. The faint outline left by heavy amounts of Vaseline, as well as the shape of the still noticeable amount left, shows that the killer kissed the man _after_ he died.”

“What? _Kissed_ him? Why?” John asks with disbelief. _Seriously, why?_

Sherlock flicks his gaze towards John, with one hand still in the pocket of his long coat.

Lestrade nods, though he looks confused as well. “So, are the victims not as random as we thought?” Lestrade asks, looking increasingly doubtful as Sherlock portrays a most exasperated expression.

“Of course not. The selection of victims is still random save for two reasons; age, minor physical characteristics. Everything about this particular murder so far indicates that the killer is growing increasingly frustrated and angry, more unstable, and more emotional. His control is slipping; he isn’t achieving what he wishes too. This will inevitably give us an advantage against him. It already has given us one. The kiss shows us that not only is he precisely recreating the _scene_ of a crime, but the crime committed. A young boy kills an older man, the older man from the original crime being the current perpetrators father. That’s why he kissed him, increasingly uncontrolled, frustrated emotion. It’s why he’s doing all this, _revenge._ The crime which this man is recreating was likely to have been committed while he was a child himself, although it isn’t likely – however not impossible – that he’s the one who committed it. What is more possible is that he _watched_ it being done; this is why he would remember everything so clearly. Emotional and psychological trauma has an intriguing way of either repressing itself, or imprinting itself with very little chance of being able to forget.” Sherlock stands up, but continues to look down fiercely at the body.

John couldn’t help but feel a sense of eerie déjà vu during the first part of Sherlock’s words, ‘increasingly frustrated’ ... ‘more unstable’ ... ‘control slipping’ ...sounds an awful lot like Sherlock himself. Now, as Sherlock finishes his observation, John notices a change in Sherlock’s demeanour, likely something no one else except John would notice. Subtle signs of frustration, an angry tantrum barely controlled hovering underneath the surface of Sherlock. And on top of all that, fear. Fear trying to be controlled by Sherlock himself is fighting its way through Sherlock’s eyes.

At the moment, not caring one whit that there is unresolved tension and anger between him and Sherlock (despite the occasional jocular occurrences that have happened at the crime scene so far), John the doctor and John the friend walk over to join Sherlock’s side and place their hand on Sherlock’s shoulder; a small, innocent gesture of support.

John immediately expects Sherlock to either tense or move away.

He does neither. In fact, he appears to pretend that John hasn’t done anything. John decides to interpret that as progress.

Lestrade glances briefly at John’s gesture, not looking the least bit surprised.

“Where do we go from-” Lestrade starts to say.

“Nowhere.” Sherlock says.

John looks at him with puzzlement and scepticism.

“Nowhere?” John and Lestrade speak at the same time.

Sherlock’s at each of them once, before muttering something like ‘boring little brains’ and sighing.

“What I have learned here today gives us nothing with which to move forward actively. However, it does let us know the killer is getting more desperate, he’ll probably make more mistakes, or even confront me directly. This is encouraging. The stimulus of new information, though admittedly some will require deletion, is already sparking new theories. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything useful I’ll need your assistance with. Tomorrow I will once again visit the morgue; however I doubt it’ll turn up anything new.” Sherlock nods once at Lestrade and begins to walk away.

Encouraging? _Encouraging?_ There is just...so much not good using that word in that particular context. John stiffens and drops his hand.

“Hold on!” Lestrade prevents Sherlock from walking past by a touch to his shoulder.

The reaction is obvious and immediate. Sherlock aggressively throws off Lestrade’s hand and narrows his eyes at him darkly. John walks over quickly as Lestrade’s eyes widen in mild surprise, and then morph into something akin to worry.

“Sherlock.” John murmurs to Sherlock quietly.

Sherlock immediately inhales sharply and turns ramrod straight, eyes once again schooled chillingly.

“Sorry, I was going to say, be sure let me know _whenever_ you find or come up with something, whether I’m useful to you or not.” Lestrade says this both to Sherlock and John.

“We will.” John assures Lestrade firmly.

“Good.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock reiterates with sarcasm. He disregards the pair of them and walks away; hands in his pockets, facing resolutely forward the long Belstaff coat billowing out around his ankles.

John doesn’t follow right away.

“I’m sorry about that, he’s just-”

“John, you don’t need to apologize for Sherlock to me, whatever the state he’s in. Just...look after him; I don’t mind telling you I’m worried.”

John nods; a fresh wave of frustration making itself known.

“You and me both, thanks Greg.” John and Lestrade watch Sherlock leave. “I’d better follow him.” John is struck with an almost morbid humour at how close to a motto those words are.

“I’ll call or text if anything happens.” Lestrade calls out as John hurries away after Sherlock.

It only takes a minute for John to find Sherlock, another déjà vu moment, waiting by the road, with a mobile to his ear, outside the crime scene and abandoned factory.

John shivers violently against the cold wind. As he dons his hat and mittens (thanking no one in particular that he remembered to wear one of his extra warm jumpers) his mobile buzzes with an incoming text.

John, now fully fitted with hat and mitts, walks across the lot towards Sherlock as he takes out his mobile. Hoping he’s wrong about who is texting him now...he’s not.

_Dr. Watson. I do hope that the drama of the past few days has enlightened you to the extent of my brother’s instability regarding this matter. I had thought your concern for his well being would be a higher priority than any case could possibly be. I hope I wasn’t mistaken._

_MH_

 

John clenches his fingers around his mobile and resists the urge to throw it roughly to the ground and stomp on it. He refuses to respond to Mycroft’s obvious bate. He obviously doesn’t know John very well (or his own brother for that matter) if he thinks testing his loyalty to Sherlock by using how much he feels for him as a guilt trick to better whatever game the man is playing will work. John’s dedication to Sherlock’s well being exceeds his own. Does that give him the right to physically stop him (because John is sure that’s what it would take, and even then that probably wouldn’t do much good) from not doing his work? Work that is an essential part of his identity? No, it doesn’t. John also believes that once Sherlock solves this case, he’ll be able come to terms with (with or without John’s help) whatever is going on...he hopes.

So John decides not to respond to the text and instead puts his phone back firmly inside his pocket. Sometimes the best response is no response at all.

Dealing with the Holmes brothers will be the death of one John Hamish Watson... an interesting way to go.

John, eager to get some blood flowing in his legs, jogs towards Sherlock. Should he tell Sherlock about the text from Mycroft? Knowing him, the bugger probably knew before John even looked at the text.

The agitation John feels from receiving that text from Mycroft is apparently quite evident to Sherlock when John reaches his place beside him. Sherlock gives John a quick sideways look, his expression soon darkens as he turns away to look straight ahead...definitely angry.

“My _hateful_ brother really should focus his attentions to his once again failed diet instead of _us_ and this _case._ ” Sherlock’s stance is rigid; his eyes alight with cold fire, growing angrier by the millisecond.

“Sherlock-”

“Stop. I don’t want your sympathy or _pity,_ or constant _irritating_ nagging _,_ I am tired of it. Quite frankly, it seems to be all you’re capable of recently. Nag, nag, nag. You need help Sherlock! Let me help you Sherlock! Please tell me what’s going on Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock!_ ” Sherlock’s voice is borderline disgusted, and his voice grows louder as he speaks. He looks at John. “Why? Oh right, of course. I am not consistent with your idea of _normal_ , so you tell yourself you’re “trying to help” for my benefit when you’re doing this entirely for yourself, as I am, I don’t matter to you, not really. This is some idiotic idea of fixing me; moulding me into a form you’re comfortable with, a more human idiom. You’ve been doing this for years, subtly; telling me what to do, how to do it, getting angry when I do something _you_ don’t like. You will not succeed with this John, and you never will. I suggest you give up now and leave me be.”

To say John is flabbergasted and hurt would be an understatement.

“You’re kidding right? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! I am so sick of fighting these ridiculous statements of yours!” John’s hackles rise...they seem to be doing that a lot lately. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I swear Sherlock, if you-”

“If I what John?” Sherlock mutters darkly.

“Will you just...just listen to me Sherlock?! Shut up for once and try, please try to listen. After everything, everything that has happened, how can you possibility think...think so badly of me? I have never thought you to be a bloody project of any kind! This...what you’re saying, it sounds like you despise me for god’s sake! I have no idea what that oh so brilliant mind of yours is thinking most of the time, but I’m pretty sure right now, it’s full of nonsense and who knows what else. I have been taking a lot of fucking crap from you Sherlock-”

“Why? Do enlighten me John.” Sherlock is leaning down towards John now.

_Jesus Christ! What will it take to make the man just...just..._ John growls inwardly.

“Because I fucking _love_ you, you bloody lunatic! You know that, you’ve told me as much remember?! I want to help the person I love most; it’s what people with feelings do, when someone they care about is in any kind of trouble, they help. It has nothing to do with some desire to turn you into someone you’re not; I care for you _because_ of who you are. Normal isn’t exactly something that is on my agenda. I wouldn’t be here; I probably wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. You push my limits no question, you’re still the annoying dick you always were, but you mean more to me than anyone else does or did...even...even Mary.” John breathes deeply, his voice going suddenly small at the end. That is one thing he has never told Sherlock, figuring the man could deduce it. However, Sherlock has always had a blind spot to emotions (not always, but often). 

John hangs his head, the cold now a distant part of John’s focus, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze...not wanting to see the disdain that’s probably there. Sherlock abhors sentiment after all. “You are right about one thing, I have been doing this for years...not trying to fix you, but I have been loving you for years, even when you were...dead, even when you left me behind, even when I didn’t want to, even when you didn’t trust me. Yes, I understand your reasons for faking your death, but that doesn’t change...” John rests a numb palm against his face. He really didn’t mean to go there, it just kind of... _I’m definitely banging my head against a wall later_. “Let’s just...forget this alright? We’ve got a case to solve yeah?”

John, still fiercely not looking at Sherlock and eager to get home as soon as possible, turns to face the nearly empty road; waiting for the taxi Sherlock probably called already. Sherlock has said more unforgivable things in the past week than in the entire time he has known him. The only thing that has kept John from walking out, from saying ‘to hell with this’, from unleashing the true wrath of his temper, is the fact that something not good is going with Sherlock, and the man is afraid, no matter how much Sherlock tries to hide it. Everyone responds differently when afraid, some confront it with very little trouble, some withdraw, some get incredibly anxious, and some get angry, defensive, and frustrated, and will often take their anger out on others. As much as Sherlock protests otherwise, John is convinced more than ever that Sherlock is no more or less human than the rest of us idiots.

He can’t see Sherlock’s face, but John does notice that the detective is frozen and unmoving. 

“I don’t...understand. It doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock says with frustration.

John laughs darkly.

“Tell me, what doesn’t make sense Sherlock?" John says, while turning to face Sherlock.

The man is a dejected mix of a forced mask of control, cracking, breaking, frustration and genuine confusion, fear, leeching through. Few times has John ever seen him look so... _human._ It is an experience equal parts intriguing and terrifying.

What doesn’t Sherlock Holmes, one of the greatest minds to probably ever live, understand? What doesn’t make sense to him? Surprisingly, a lot of things. John can certainly think of a few, some of which Sherlock would – in a normal state – scold and act with total exasperation and annoyance at John for bringing up (re; ‘solar system’). In this context though? John has very little idea.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He entraps himself behind that unreadable mask and faces away from John. A loud buzzing sound emanates from Sherlock’s pocket. The detective pulls out the phone, looking at the text flashing across the screen, which John can’t see from this angle. Sherlock’s face is carefully blank as he reads it. He seems to regard the text no further and replaces the mobile back in his pocket.

As Sherlock and John stand silent beside each other, John decides he probably needs a break from all this, a visit to a pub with Greg maybe. From the looks of things, he could use one too.

 

Soon the cab arrives. John and Sherlock enter it, sitting as far apart from each other as possible on the black leather seat.

Sherlock leans forward to give instructions to the cabbie. He then leans back and turns to look out the window, assuming the pose he usually does when trying to figure something out.

John closes his eyes and rests his head back against the seat, grateful for the warmth (though less grateful for the smell) of the cab. He almost nods off when he hears Sherlock’s belated reply to John’s question a few minutes ago.

 “I don’t understand how you can possibly love me. It defies all reason, it isn’t logical.”

Ah if only Sherlock would understand the Star Trek quip John is very tempted to make, but due to Sherlock’s lack of knowledge on popular culture, it would go right over his head.

John cracks open one eye to look at Sherlock; still facing the window.

He certainly wasn’t expecting that, although John isn’t completely surprised. Still, what do you say to that?

“I don’t understand either; I’ve given up trying to. I just do.” John says matter-of-factly, watching the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement.

“You are an idiot John.”

John snorts.

“In this context, I’ll let that one pass as an insult.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and resumes his quiet reverie.

Another way John could compare the last few days is like being doused with hot water one moment and then cold the next, and back again. John has thanked whomever over and over again for the fact that both of the occupations he’s been trained involved dealing with traumatic and potentially unstable situations. He’s positive he’d go barmy otherwise.

And so, the cab continues moving through the streets of the cold, busy metropolis of London and towards the warmth and madness of 221b...or so John thinks.


	11. Chapter 11

John, lost in this thoughts (and catching a few minutes to snooze, he hasn’t been sleeping very well at all) doesn’t notice right away, before long he does...he frowns and scans outside the window of the cab to see if he can recognise where they are...he can, but barely. It’s a district of large houses; many of them appear to be for sale or otherwise abandoned.

“Sherlock, I don’t think we’re headed towards Baker Street...” John murmurs quietly, he’s sure those were the instructions Sherlock gave the driver...so...?

“Brilliant observation John.” Sherlock says, not in any kind of whisper; so obviously he isn’t concerned about the cabby possibly overhearing.

John rolls his eyes, either this man has no understanding of subtext or he just _loves_ saying ‘brilliant observation’ ...maybe a little bit of both.

John turns to face his friend. Sherlock doesn’t look the least bit surprised; instead his eyes keep darting out the various windows of the cab as if searching for something.

“Allow me to rephrase, where the bloody hell are we and why?”

“You brought your gun I assume?” Sherlock leans in towards John slightly, speaking in hushed tones.

John nods and pats his hand on the bulge of the weapon. If there’s one thing John has learned after going on hundreds of cases with Sherlock, is that no matter how innocuous a situation may seem, things can change in seconds; so best to be prepared. 

Sherlock nods approvingly and resumes his razor focus out the various windows.

What’s going on _now?_ John doubts they’ve been kidnapped by the cabby, Sherlock certainly isn’t acting like it.

“Sherlock, why will I need my gun?” John asks seriously.

“We’re following a lead.” Sherlock fixates on a point a fair distance ahead of them, a slight frown coming upon his features. “Could be dangerous.”

_Ah the magic words._

John nods.

“What’s the lead?” John asks, genuinely curious. Suddenly Sherlock seems to freeze then; eyes narrowed and then quickly going wide. “Sherlock-?”

Sherlock curses loudly and flings his arm out across John’s chest; pressing him tightly against the seat. “Brace yourself!” He yells.

A glint catches John’s eye a few buildings ahead. _Shit. Not good._

John curses and follows Sherlock’s instructions quickly, as does Sherlock. The latter still has his arm holding John securely to the seat. At that moment it happens and to John it feels like slow motion.

A shot shatters the front window of the cab. The cabby slumps forward onto the steering wheel, the car swerves with horrible screeches as the cabby then slides off to the right; turning the wheel as he does so. His foot still on the gas pedal.

There is no time to make a jump out the doors of the cab before John sees the looming length of a lamp post they’re fast headed towards, nose first.

_Double shit._

John prepares himself for a crash. He automatically does the same thing Sherlock did before and throws his arm across Sherlock’s chest, holding him as tight as he can against the seat; to protect from whiplash and being thrown forward. He momentarily considers throwing himself against Sherlock completely.

He feels Sherlock’s arm tighten even further and then – _CRASH!_

There is a loud ringing in John’s ears...dizzy...voices...smell of gasoline...blood, pain, blow to the head, it would explain this...this disjointed feeling...heat, very hot, heat....fire? “JOHN!” a voice cries...John tries to speak, he doesn’t know...what should he do? ...heavy breathing, “John!”, strong hands grip underneath his shoulders...he’s being moved...cold air, very, very cold...bright light, everything’s blurry...Sherlock...Sherlock...where-? “John can you hear me?!” ...John tries to nod, he thinks he does, he hears a sigh above him....hands grip his shoulders once more, pulling him quickly upwards...no, no, he doesn’t want to move...why is he...he hears a pained grunt from somewhere nearby...wait, these aren’t Sherlock’s hands holding him up, who....

John tries to force himself past the discombobulating feeling pounding through his skull and body, one instinct becoming clear; protect. He tries to struggle, not certain whom he’s hitting; but the arms half holding, half dragging him to...somewhere, John’s vision is still slightly blurry, concussion, but it is beginning to clear up. _Where’s Sherlock? Did he escape?_

“Keep fucking still or you’ll get hit like your friend here.”

A deep, gruff voice sounds very near to John’s ear. Sherlock, they’ve got Sherlock too. _Shit._

John’s stability is slowly returning to him, as is his hearing and vision. He squints and tries to focus on where he is, looks like a large, empty space, windows are covered and the floor is hardwood. John can hear grunting coming from somewhere off to his right.

“I assure you, for many reasons, I will not be going anywhere. Don’t be stupid. You don’t need to restrain me, punching and continuing to threaten me with stereotypical anecdotes while you have both me and my friend captive, is pointless. You must’ve have gotten your kidnapping experience from those horrid films I’ve painfully heard so much about.”

“Shut up you fucking _ponce!_ ”

“Oh ponce, how original.”

“Shut UP!”

There’s another pained grunt, John struggles automatically. _Damn it Sherlock, now is not the time to be a smart arse._

“Hey! What did I say?” That same voice echoes menacingly in John’s ear.

John theorizes there must be at least two or three men in the room. He and Sherlock could take them no problem, but with John still somewhat discombobulated and Sherlock being effectively restrained, they can’t right now. Plus, John doesn’t feel the familiar weight of his gun, they’ve got that too, and probably their own.

All that doesn’t mean John won’t jump at the opportunity to escape should it arise. Right now, he’s mainly wondering words that he’s been pondering often lately, except this time they’re not entirely in reference to Sherlock; _what the bloody hell is going on?_

John feels himself pulled up straighter. His vision now significantly clearer, John can see his surroundings much better. A single, though very large, man is holding onto John tightly from behind; he can feel the cold, threatening point of a gun at the small of his back. To his right he see’s Sherlock, looking only a little dishevelled and no obvious signs of harm from the crash John is relieved to note.

There are two men standing like sentinels beside Sherlock, restraining him tightly, both of them have guns. Sherlock is very carefully not looking at John, but as if sensing John observing him Sherlock nods quickly.

Their positions suggest they’re waiting for someone.

“I suppose we’re waiting for the big bad guy to dramatically reveal himself from the shadows...how _dramatic._ ” Sherlock sneers.

_Oh for god’s sake Sherlock! Shut up!_

John see’s Sherlock get punched much too close to the kidneys. Sherlock groans but straightens himself quickly.

Then Sherlock’s words register... _big bad guy...himself....wait a second...oh for fucks sake! Following a “lead” my arse!_

John’s suspicions are confirmed when a man enters the room by way of door directly across from Sherlock and John.

He’s wearing dark trousers, gloves, large work boots, and a dark green zipped up parka. No hat. His features are what could be called boyishly handsome, but there is darkness there in the lines of his face, his eyes...a dangerous man.

“This will have to be done quickly; the police and that _other_ Holmes will be here momentarily. If you cooperate Sherlock, I am positive we will all leave here unharmed and with what we need.”

The man, nearly as tall as Sherlock, with straight dark hair, walks right up to Sherlock. John automatically struggles; he feels the strong hand holding both his wrists tighten painfully.

Sherlock is observing the man with narrowed, vaguely interested eyes. However there is a shaking tension John can see Sherlock trying very hard to control.

“I don’t believe we have met.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

The man smiles tightly, anger alight in his features. He is standing much, much too close to Sherlock for John’s comfort.

“We have Sherlock, we have. I was hoping you’d remember. I’ve been trying, but all my efforts have clearly been useless.” The man is speaking far too calmly for that fierce expression on his face. 

“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re referring to.” Sherlock doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but John knows a confused Sherlock when he sees one.

The man growls and grips the front of Sherlock’s coat tightly with both hands, dragging Sherlock down to his face.

John struggles further, but to no avail.

“You don’t want more men to die do you? More _worthless, guilty_ boys like _you_ to get taken?” The man looks deeply in Sherlock’s eyes, hands shaking with rage. Sherlock is starting to shake himself, but his face is as cold and immovable as ever. “ANSWER ME!”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock says quietly, watching the man closely.

_Wait, worthless and guilt boys like Sherlock was? What...this man is sick._

“Good, then you had better remember. _Now._ Or it won’t just be strangers I’ll harm, but your companion here too.” The man nods towards John without taking his angry eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at John though, a brief pained look flashing over his face before quickly turning back to the man.

“I don’t remember.” Sherlock’s voice is on the verge of cracking. “I don’t know!”

 John is looking quickly between the two men, trying to gauge what’s going on. But John is utterly lost, and very confused.

 The man’s grip on Sherlock tightens. His face twists into one of anguish and fury.

 “I KNOW YOU DON’T!” He yells. Sherlock’s face remains impassive. However John notices that Sherlock’s hands are clenching, shaking, and clenching again. The man seems to hang his head for a moment, and then looks back up at Sherlock. “You, you destroyed me, you took away the one person who...” The man begins to shake. “And you don’t even remember.” The man’s face is stark with disbelief. He lets go of Sherlock and pushes him roughly. “You just got to walk _away!_ Happy and forgetful! I find you, now a consulting detective, after all this time, and I find out you were never punished, it didn’t take much too also realize you didn’t even remember. You don’t get that unfair luxury; you deserve to be relentlessly, painfully punished and haunted. You, the one who caused all this, do not deserve to walk away _FUCKING FREE!_ ” The man screams those last two words loudly, his voice shaking, pointing an unsteady finger at Sherlock; hatred sharp in his eyes.

 His words are swirling through the still slightly muddled state of John’s mind, none of them make sense, and yet on some level he feels they do make sense, but John still doesn’t understand what the hell is going on here.

 John, who had previously been staring at the very angry man, now turns back to look at Sherlock.

 ...It’s as though someone has stabbed John and twisted the knife.

All measure of control and cold detachment are gone from Sherlock. All blood has drained from his skin; pure, painful shock is horribly imprinted on Sherlock’s normally incandescent face. Sherlock is breathing heavily, his entire body shaking and his mouth is dropped open in a silent scream.

It’s a heartbreaking sight.

The man is watching Sherlock too, with narrowed eyes and shaking hands, a disgusting kind of twisted pleasure begins to assert itself on his face; replacing the frustrated anger that was there before. 

He motions for the men to let go of his arms. Sherlock immediately drops, he begins to wretch and soon Sherlock is vomiting onto the floor, tears are running down his face.

 John pulls as powerfully as he can against the grip of the man still restraining his wrists with horrifying strength.

“LET ME GO FUCKING NOW!” John yells, wanting desperately to get to Sherlock, _now._

John feels his wrists being twisted painfully; John resists the urge to scream.

The man, watching Sherlock with a now curiously blank expression, nods in John’s direction without taking his eyes of Sherlock; still retching onto the floor, clutching his stomach.

“Don’t try anything stupid, I’ve got your gun remember.” The goon whispers in John’s ear.

Feeling the grip loosen, John violently yanks his arms away. Ignoring the pain lingering in his head, which is worse when moving, John rushes to Sherlock’s side and immediately drops to his knees. He places a comforting, shaking hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright?” John murmurs to him. It’s a stupid question; John can see he isn’t alright. John is overcome though with shock and agony at seeing his friend so...broken.

Sherlock retches again, dry this time. He continues to shake as he collapses, sideways onto John’s lap; probably not on purpose.

John’s face tightens even further. Not caring one whit about the vomit, John moves his hand to Sherlock’s hair, turns his face slightly towards him and using his coat sleeve wipes away the bile lingering around Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock looks nearly catatonic. John wraps both his arms around the detective.

In the distance, John hears the fast approaching sounds of police cars. John tightens his arms protectively and looks darkly, with hatred, up at the man standing only a few feet away.

“Thank-you Sherlock, I’ll be seeing you soon.” The man, his face still curiously blank, nods to his men.

“I am going to _kill_ you.” John says, voice darker than it’s ever been.

The man doesn’t turn around as he and his men quickly make their way towards the door.

The police sirens are getting louder.

“No you won’t John Watson.” The man calls back loudly. He pulls something out of his pocket, John’s gun, throws it onto the floor.

_Don’t be so fucking sure of yourself._

“Timothy.”

Both John and the man freeze at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, pained and very, very dry.

The man seems to stiffen at the name ( _whose name?_ ), but at a fresh wave of police siren sounds he quickly exits. John would very much like to pick up his gun and run after that man, but he can’t leave Sherlock like this.

John looks down at Sherlock. The latter is staring in the direction the man disappeared; his face still eerily bloodless.

“Sherlock?” John whispers. “You’re ok Sherlock; help is on the way.”

He hears the sounds of cars arriving, and the police sirens very nearby and incredibly loud.

“I’m empty, John.” Sherlock, unmoving in John’s arms, says this painfully quiet; faint tremors are still going through his body.

The words are cryptic, and John has no idea what Sherlock could possibly mean.

“No you’re not, for better or for worse, you’re my best-friend.”

Caught up in all the high running emotions, the pain swirling his best-friend and himself, John bends his down and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s; he plants a soft kiss to the man’s clammy forehead.

Sherlock, whose eyes had recently closed, open again at the touch. John moves away so he can see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is looking up John, his face still bloodless, radiating an unfathomable pain.

_What’s happened to him?_ John thinks, tears welling up unbidden in his eyes. _I am really going to kill that maniac._

“Don’t cry. I don’t deserve you.” Sherlock’s face twists in pain and he looks away from John, his eyes blinking slowly, body still trembling in shock.

“No one has ever deserved a John Watson more than Sherlock Holmes.” John says (wondering why he referred to himself in the third person) with absolute conviction, pained at the way his friend’s voice sounded when he said that like he truly believes it.

Sherlock and John, Sherlock no longer shaking but still unmoving, and John still cradling him like you would a child, are an odd sight to Lestrade and the officers of New Scotland Yard when they arrive at the scene.

Lestrade walks over to the intertwined duo and kneels down beside them.

“What happened?”

John slowly turns his head. Lestrade is taken back at the sight of John, he looks down at Sherlock and notices how pale and ill he looks.

“I...” John is speechless. He has no idea where to start, where do you start? John feels as though he’s been overloaded with information and feeling...he needs time to process it. First things first though, Sherlock needs help. “Sherlock needs help.” John says.

Lestrade frowns with concern, taking a quick glance around the room.

“From the looks of things I’d say you need to be taken care of as well John.” Lestrade places a hand on John’s shoulder.

John smiles painfully.

“Maybe.” John says. “But he needs it more.” John tightens his grip on Sherlock when he says this.

Lestrade looks down, really focusing on Sherlock’s face...Lestrade feels sick. In all the years he has known this insane man, he has never seen him look so...wrecked, and horrid. John may be right.

It’s physically painful for Lestrade to see both Sherlock and John in this state. And yet at the same time, deeply moving to see how much the two are in sync, even when they think they aren’t. They’ve been a part of each other from day one. Lestrade knew fairly immediately that it was John who shot the cabby; Sherlock wasn’t exactly very subtle about his deflection.

He isn’t sure if either John or Sherlock are truly aware of it, but Lestrade cares for them both more than he could ever express in words. They’re family to him.

So Lestrade says. “I’ll make sure you’re both taken care of.”


	12. Chapter 12

It takes roughly an hour before John and Sherlock arrive back at Baker Street, accompanied by both Mycroft and Lestrade.

When Lestrade escorted John and Sherlock out (Sherlock refused – not so much with words, but with actions – to be put on a stretcher, even though his walking was shaky at best. He opted to be supported by John and Lestrade instead) Mycroft had been there waiting; along with a black car. He insisted on taking Sherlock and John to the hospital personally.

John didn’t have the energy to protest, and as pissed off he still was at Mycroft, he would certainly be the one who could get them there the fastest, more for Sherlock’s sake than for John’s. Sherlock looked like hell.

That was of course the moment when Sherlock decided to start speaking again, his voice surprisingly strong considering, though there was a weary heaviness to it.

Long story short, an argument ensued between John, Mycroft, Lestrade and Sherlock. Sherlock refused to go to the hospital; he just wanted to go home, not elaborating further. John decided not to get angry or force him, it really seemed like he didn’t need any more confrontation, and John eventually decided that he could try and keep an eye on Sherlock at home, not knowing how Sherlock might be in a few hours. Sherlock’s state at the time suggested a monumental shock to his system, there was no way for John to even guess how Sherlock would eventually react. So, he agreed with Sherlock and said they were going home. Mycroft tried to insist, this of course turned out to be pointless, and Lestrade pointed out John’s own injury. John said that it was probably only mild and he could look after himself, Lestrade gave him a skeptical look and reluctantly seemed to acquiesce. Lestrade then said that the officers could take care of things here and he’d like to go back to Baker Street with them, to make sure they’re alright. And if John and Sherlock were both up to it, he would come by tomorrow and ask them some questions about the accident and what happened afterwards. Sherlock groaned at that, still leaning heavily against John and Lestrade, but John accepted...not sure how, or if, he will go about explaining what happened in detail.

Mycroft didn’t look entirely happy, but he agreed to drive them all back to 221b. John noted at the time, while he and Lestrade were manoeuvring a still in shock and unsteady Sherlock into the black car, that Mycroft had a look of barely concealed worry on his face as he gazed at his little brother. The fact that John could plainly see it through his usually unreadable facade that rivals his own brother’s in terms of effectiveness, let John know just how worried Mycroft was about Sherlock. There was something else though, a gut feeling that Mycroft knew a lot more about why Sherlock was feeling the way he was, maybe he would even know what the maniac back there was talking about. John hasn’t even let himself think about that yet, instead choosing to focus on getting Sherlock home.

And so Mycroft drove the three men back to 221b, Sherlock once again near catatonically frozen beside John; eyes cast downwards. John kept a hand securely over his the entire time. During the drive both Mycroft and Lestrade informed Sherlock and John that none of their people were able to catch the man. Although they would keep trying, Mycroft looked highly skeptical at the effectiveness of Lestrade’s team, and with mild surprise John saw that Mycroft’s confidence in his own team was low as well.

John started to feel angry then; Mycroft is practically the whole British government! He’s been interfering with their progress the whole time during this case and yet hasn’t seemed to have had one dent of success in catching this man, and now his brother is worse for wear because of.

That anger continued to simmer in John even when they arrived at home. Sherlock looked about ready to pass out by the time they got there, whatever brief moment of lucidity he experienced before they got into the car now gone. So Lestrade and John then proceeded to manoeuvre Sherlock up the stairs, Mycroft (umbrella and all) following behind, through the flat and into Sherlock’s bed room.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sisters the day before so she wasn’t home and didn’t witness anything.

Mycroft was a silent sentinel during the whole time John and Lestrade got Sherlock into bed. The detective was most certainly conscious, and it was scary to John to see him so...compliant with their actions. It was as if the man had retreated entirely into his mind and was only peripherally aware of what was going on around him.

They stripped him of his coat, John cleaned his face of any remaining vomit, Lestrade took off his shoes, John took off Sherlock’s suit jacket, shirt and trousers; leaving him in only his pants. Lestrade then backed away, making sure to stand a fair distance from Mycroft; obviously not happy with the man either.

John pulled up the blankets, making sure Sherlock was well covered. The detective at that point was staring at the ceiling, blinking every few seconds, his breathing was relatively normal and some colour was returning to his face. John felt for his pulse and found it to be slightly high, which he wasn’t surprised to find. He then bent down and whispered to Sherlock “get some sleep” before leaving Sherlock’s bedroom; Lestrade and Mycroft followed quickly after. He looked at Sherlock once more, now with this eyes closed, before closing the door behind them; but left it open a crack.

Lestrade and John proceeded to have a small conversation in the living room regarding the accident, but John was feeling too tired (not just physically, but mentally and emotionally drained as well) to say much more...for now at least. Lestrade didn’t push and after asking John to keep him apprised on how he and Sherlock are doing, Lestrade gave a sad parting smile and left.

John then turned around and noticed Mycroft was staring in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom with a calculating gaze very reminiscent of both Holmes brothers. He was absentmindedly tapping his umbrella against the floor of the kitchen.

John wanted him to go, anger both irrational and rational was threatening to break free and unleash itself on Mycroft. John was exhausted and just wanted to sleep and _then_ think about what happened, the consequences of that and the implications made, facts realized, in the morning. John had thought then; _how on earth are Sherlock and I going to even talk about this?_ John was more worried though about Sherlock’s state of mind. He didn’t know precisely what Sherlock remembered and why it made him respond the way he did, but more than ever John was very much worried about him. Any lingering anger or hurt he was feeling towards Sherlock for the awful things he said to John seemed to either go on the back burner, or disappear altogether in the wake of the pain and shock his friend seemed to experience in that house after the confrontation with that bastard. Clearly whatever Sherlock had been controlling, feeling, trying to figure out this past week had exploded inside that moment. John just needed to figure out how to deal with whatever the aftermath will be.

 Now, as John finally starts to feel the physical pain from the ordeal creep up on him, he walks past the statue still Mycroft and decides a cup of tea is needed before John heads to bed and hopefully some sleep...a part of John fears he won’t be able to sleep at all; the image of Sherlock so broken and hollowed is a heartbreaking picture burned on his retinas.

These thoughts and more are going through John’s head as he boils the kettle and makes himself a cup of tea, not bothering to make enough for Mycroft (still eerily standing and facing the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom door).

John leans against the kitchen counter, taking a sip of his tea and wondering how best to tell Mycroft to shove off. John only barely trusts Mycroft not to murder him in his sleep for some unforeseeable good of the nation and likes him even less, the way he’s probably been hounding and poking at Sherlock the past few days, and the fact that he’s withholding important information (like who this man is that is committing these horrible crimes) out of some power hungry idea of protecting his little brother, endears John to him even less.

In true English fashion, John decides to finish his tea first, get some semblance of strength back, before he confronts Mycroft and then “politely” asks him to leave.

John watches Mycroft’s face morph into intense concentration and deep thought. Not at all enthralling the way Sherlock is when doing just that.

Minutes of very tense and uncomfortable silence (save for the sound of John drinking his tea and Mycroft alternating between tapping his umbrella and firing off a few texts) pass.

John is about to speak when Mycroft says something.

“There is no need for you to express your clear desire for me to leave or chastise me for my behaviour John; I assure you the latter was done with the best of intentions. As for me leaving, I intend on doing so now. At the moment there is nothing further I can accomplish here. I wish you well Dr. Watson; do look after my brother to the best of your many abilities.” Mycroft gives John a slim smile (an odd thing to see Mycroft do, just doesn’t look right), but there is genuine worry lingering in his eyes.

John frowns slightly but doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to stare at Mycroft with unblinking intensity, thinking in response to Mycroft’s last statement; _I always will_.

Mycroft seems to read this and nods with a slight bow of appreciation, giving John a shrewd once over before turning away and heading towards the exit.

As Mycroft steps out the door and into the hallway, a loud scream permeates the flat...emanating from Sherlock’s bedroom.

_Shit! Another night terror._

John drops his tea cup, it shatters as he runs towards Sherlock’s bedroom; an image of Sherlock once more trying to throw himself out a window flashes in John’s mind.

Dealing with Sherlock’s night terrors does not get easier each time one happens. If anything it gets worse, it would be different if John was able to treat them with professional detachment, but John is very much emotionally involved and he just can’t detach himself in that way when it comes to Sherlock.

The horrible screams continue and John only vaguely registers the additional sound of hurried footsteps behind him as he pushes the door of Sherlock’s bedroom wide open.

Sherlock is sitting straight up in bed, sweat leeching from his skin, pulse jumping wildly in the taut vein on his throat and breathing far too rapidly.

John forces himself to take a deep, steady breath even though his heart is pounding very fast. He embraces his instinct of eye in the middle of the storm and slowly approaches the bed, careful to keep some manner of distance between him and Sherlock. There are two things John is certain of as good strategy for dealing with Sherlock in a night terror, no touching unless absolutely necessary and do not get agitated or angry, speak in firm yet calming tones.

It’s frightening to see Sherlock so terrified and vulnerable, for lots of reasons. And right now...it’s even worse because of what happened earlier. Seeing him like this, John feels utterly powerless, in spite of the doctor and military training.

“Sherlock, it’s me, John. You’re alright, you’re safe.” John disregards his exhaustion and speaks in the strongest, calmest voice he can manage...though the words ring somewhat hollow.

Sherlock is heaving heavily, his torso slightly bent forward and his hands clutching tight fistfuls of blanket.

 John hears and feels something move beside him, he turns and sees Mycroft moving, slowly, to stand at the foot of the bed. He’s watching Sherlock with a deep and concentrated gaze, expression unfathomable.

John ignores him for the most part and returns his focus to Sherlock. The latter is flicking his head in abrupt side to side movements, eyes open wide and glassy.

The world narrows down to just John and Sherlock, as John watches those frantic eyes, without the glimmer of his excitement and childlike curiosity, now consumed by a fear.

“Sherlock, you are the strongest person I know, and you _will_ come out of this. Whether you don’t think you deserve me or not, you, the ultimate of all annoying gits, are stuck with me. You will never be alone for as long as I live, it has taken you dying for me to truly realize that. I. Am. Here.” John doesn’t care that Mycroft is right there, John needs to say something to Sherlock (even though he can’t understand him right now) that isn’t the usual platitudes of ‘you’re alright, you’re safe’.

 Sherlock reaches up angrily with his hands and clutches his dark springy curls. He begins twisting his torso back and forth in distress.

“HATE THIS!” Sherlock screams, still very much entrapped within his night terror. “WHY?!” He screams again, tears springing from his eyes. John’s heart breaks at the sight. “Why...why....saved, saved....horrible, should’ve died...saved, by John, John saved me....” Sherlock’s voice takes on a quiet, near sobbing tone, his coming out disjointed and pained.

As always, John doesn’t understand the real meaning in his friend’s words, but this is the first time Sherlock has said anything like ‘should’ve died’ (he hates those words). John takes a risk and slowly seats himself on the bed, a bit closer to Sherlock but still out of reach.

“I am sorry little brother.”

John looks away from Sherlock and towards Mycroft. He nearly forgot that the man was even here. John is surprised to see that Mycroft looks almost torn, gazing at Sherlock sorrowfully. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say Mycroft also looks guilty.

_Why?_ John frowns in Mycroft’s direction. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft was involved in some way, but what way?

 Sherlock takes a deep shuddering breath. John feels some of his tension release as Sherlock’s breathing slowly returns to normal, Sherlock unfolds and collapses back against his bed; eyes closed, heart rate normal, dried sweat coating much of his body, and his face...eerily peaceful.

 John continues to sit there, watching Sherlock sleep; oddly entranced by the peace he hasn’t seen on his friends face for what feels like years.

It isn’t long before John feels a hand on his shoulder... _Mycroft?_ John’s eyes widen with mild shock as he looks up at the older Holmes. Mycroft has never, not once, offered any kind of physical comfort to John or to Sherlock for that matter (not that John has seen), it’s...weird. The oddness of the gesture would be enough for John to not shrug Mycroft’s hand off right away, however the look on Mycroft’s face gives John even further pause. For the first time, Mycroft is looking at Sherlock with no pretense or masquerade, but as though he is no more than a genuinely concerned older brother worried about his younger sibling.

 “I believe there is something important we need to discuss. Something I am sure will answer a lot of your questions. First, there are a few things I need to take care of. I’ll be here early in the morning. Until then, I know you will take care of my brother. He would loathe admitting it, he is childishly stubborn at the best of times, but he does need you John.” Mycroft drops his hand and without further comment or glance, strides out of Sherlock’s bedroom.

 John’s brow creases as he thinks over Mycroft’s words. Whatever Mycroft wants to speak with John about has the army doctor feeling both apprehensive and curious; sensing that it is more than possible it’ll relate to Sherlock in some way. Will John finally get some answers about some of what is going on? Does John have to know whatever Mycroft is going to tell him? If this is related to Sherlock, is it something Sherlock wouldn’t mind John knowing? Maybe, and if it isn’t, would Sherlock forgive him the invasion of his privacy? A part of John is torn between those two possibilities.

 John supposes he’ll have to wait until the morning. _Good, I need the sleep._

Sherlock makes a sleepy grunt.

John looks down and quirks a small smile as he watches his friend clutch a pillow tightly to his chest.

Before getting up, John reaches out and lightly pats Sherlock’s hand; giving it a brief squeeze.

John exits Sherlock’s bedroom and begins his routine of gathering the bedding he’ll need for joining Sherlock on his bed. So far, Sherlock has yet to have more than one night terror per night. Anything is possible though.

It isn’t long before John is back downstairs, ready in his pyjamas, on Sherlock’s bed and under his own blanket.

Only one thing becomes different very quickly.

John is just beginning to nod off when he feels the long, lanky detective nudge over and curl up against John’s back. It’s oddly...soothing. So far, there has been no physical contact between John and Sherlock during the nights they’ve shared a bed. Something in his sleep is causing Sherlock to reach out for physical comfort, an act Sherlock would likely never do consciously.

Especially considering what happened today, John would feel like an arse if he denied Sherlock this, even if the idea of Sherlock Holmes _“snuggling”_ up to John (to anyone for that matter) is just as strange as it is unprecedented.

So, John closes his eyes, with Sherlock Holmes resting very close beside him.

And some point during the night, no one could say who reached out first, but in their sleep the two best-friends ended up with their hands intertwined.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing John notices when the vestiges of sleep begin to drift away, is that the heavy weight that had been resting against his back the entire night is now gone.

This isn’t a complete surprise to John. Sherlock is often awake before he is.

The memories of yesterday unveil themselves to John in a wild rush...including the fact that if Mycroft is to be taken at his word, he’ll most likely be waiting for John when he gets up. _Where’s Sherlock?_

John groans and turns over on his back; hands resting against his face. He needs to get up, but really John needs a few minutes to collect himself first; get a few things straightened out and clarified in his own head.

What did John learn from their confrontation with that maniac? Other than confirmation he really is insane? Not only has he kidnapped and forced children to kill, he murdered that innocent cabby! Indirectly or not. _Fuck._

 _Focus John, focus. Categorize._ An amused laugh escapes John’s mouth at the thought; he really is spending way too much time with Sherlock.

If John is to base his assumptions on both the reactions of the man and Sherlock, like it or not, Sherlock is definitely involved...those two obviously knew each other at some point a long time ago. What is truly unsettling John is that what the man said made it sound like Sherlock was more than directly linked with the crime, according to Sherlock this man’s father was the one originally murdered by a child though unlikely by the son...what possible way could Sherlock have been involved when he would’ve been a child himself? Unless... _oh shit._

There’s more to it. There has to be. Sherlock reacted so powerfully and with obvious pain, he was _sick_ for god’s sake! Whatever Sherlock remembered, had to have been pretty horrible for _that_ to have happened.

 _I really need a cuppa. First though, find Sherlock and see how he’s doing._ John is worried to find out.

John slips out from under his blanket and plants his feet firmly on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom. The clock tells him it is barely 6:00am. He walks around the bed and opens the bedroom door (noting that it had been closed the night before). John yawns and walks down the short stretch of hallway that leads into the kitchen.

There is no sign of Sherlock at the table. John finds himself missing seeing Sherlock bent over his microscope, messing about with some wacky experiment.

“He isn’t here.”

John isn’t the least bit surprised to hear Mycroft. John frowns and walks into the living room, he sees Mycroft sitting with elegantly crossed legs in Sherlock’s usual chair.

John crosses his arms.

“Where is he?” John asks with equal parts concern and seriousness.

Mycroft’s penetrating gaze zeroes in on John’s face.

“I would imagine he is compartmentalizing and processing his experience yesterday, along with the bearing it has on the case itself.” Mycroft pulls out what looks like a Patek Philippe pocket watch and glances at the time. “If you would sit John.” Mycroft waves an inviting hand to John’s _own chair_ , as if it weren’t and was giving John permission. _Arrogant sod._

John doesn’t sit, not yet, instead reading the subtext in Mycroft’s words.

“So he’s gone out for some air?” John feels unnaturally edgy, his protective instinct regarding Sherlock having increased; especially since the man all but promised he and Sherlock would meet again. If something happened and John wasn’t there...John tenses. He isn’t shocked Sherlock has left the flat; anyone would need, and deserve, space to think. Knowing Sherlock though, there is probably another reason why he left the flat. However concerned John is for Sherlock’s safety (especially since he doesn’t know how stable Sherlock is right now) Mycroft doesn’t seem overly so, probably he’s keeping more than just an eye on Sherlock.

Still, John would like to know how Sherlock is from the man himself. John walks over to his jacket and pulls out his mobile from the pocket. He fires a quick _how are you?_ Text to Sherlock and places the mobile on the table beside John’s armchair.

“To put it in colloquial terms, yes. Sherlock and I collided just as he was leaving.” Mycroft’s face is carefully impassive, but the brief pause before Mycroft continues speaking is enough to let John know that it wasn’t just a bump in the shoulder encounter. “He indicated that if I woke you up, he would steal my umbrella and test its effectiveness against sulphuric acid.” Mycroft looks vaguely displeased upon saying that. John laughs a little, glad to hear Sherlock isn’t still catatonically silent at least. “And to ease any potential issues you may be having regarding loyalty, privacy and such, he also said, and I quote ‘Tell him’. I was going to tell you anyway, I believe he mainly said that for your benefit knowing I would relay it to you.”

John’s brow furrows deeply as he finally heeds Mycroft’s “offer” and sits down in his arm chair; both dreading and wanting to find out exactly what Mycroft, and now obviously Sherlock, knows.

Mycroft sets his astute gaze on John.

“I am sure you have been less than pleased with my insistence and methods of trying to dissuade Sherlock from pursuing this case, I did so because I had hoped to prevent Sherlock remembering the very thing this man sought to bring up in Sherlock’s memory. Now that my efforts have been for nothing, I do not yet know what the consequences will be or what Sherlock will do as a result. I am finding my brother much less easy to predict than he used to be.” Mycroft glances briefly around the room.

“Less easy to control you mean.” John says blankly; watching Mycroft with a careful eye.

Mycroft sighs with exasperation.

At that moment John hears his mobile buzz with an incoming text. He reaches out to his right and grabs the phone; Mycroft watching him curiously.

_Thinking._

_SH_

_Of course_. John grimaces briefly at the rebuff. _Good enough for now_. He sets the mobile aside.

Mycroft watches John for a moment and then continues to talk.

“I am positive some of what I’m about to tell you won’t come as a surprise, even the most unobservant would’ve been able to grace a few details from your confrontation yesterday.” Mycroft says.

“Sherlock said the name Timothy.” John puts out there.

Mycroft nods. “Yes, Timothy Morgan. He is the man you met yesterday, and a man I have kept a careful eye on for approximately twenty seven years, during which he was in a private psychiatric institution, until he was released one year ago and disappeared five months ago. He has a surprisingly virulent intellect as recent events have proved, but he is emotionally unstable. When the first murder occurred, I knew instantly he was responsible. My precise reasons for keeping this information from both Sherlock and you will become clear shortly. I’m sure you were able to figure out that Sherlock and he had met before; more specifically, when they were children. I was in my early twenties and already starting to get a decent foothold in my government position and had a fair bit of influence. They were both ten years old, and only knew each other for one day. It is a day however that admittedly has always haunted me.” Mycroft looks off to the side for a moment, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again.

John is watching Mycroft with incredible focus, listening intently and processing each and every word. It’s odd to see Mycroft admit to something ‘haunting’ him; the man generally seems even more emotionally detached than Sherlock.

“Our uncle had recently died and our father, now deceased, was named the beneficiary, he hired a lawyer to visit our manor home outside of London to go over the many assets our uncle had, one day and a night. He was a single father and asked if he could bring his son along since he had no one to leave him with. Our father consented.” John noticed Mycroft stiffen for a split second. John narrows his eyes, a sense of foreboding coming to him.

 “Mummy was ill at the time and didn’t much leave her room; father went to check on her often. I was home for a brief visit; Sherlock was still at an age where he viewed me as a role model so-to-speak, however he was already at my level of intellect at age ten. He was troublesome, and yet quite a remarkable young boy. The son of this lawyer Andrew Morgan, was quite obviously Timothy Morgan. He and Sherlock were much alike in several ways, and while his father and ours were working that day, Timothy and Sherlock were exploring and spending time with each other. Even though I was home, I was also quite busy with my own work and didn’t realize until it was too late that Andrew Morgan had been eyeing Sherlock unnaturally the entire time.”

 _Oh no_ , John definitely doesn’t like where this is going, already he’s feeling sick...

Mycroft seems to notice the theory dawn on John’s face, he frowns sadly.

“Later that night, after our housekeeper had shown both the lawyer and son to their rooms, I took refuge in one of the drawing rooms not far from Sherlock’s bedroom on the second floor. It was also the same floor of the guest bedrooms. Mummy and father’s room was on the other side of the house in a separate wing. It was barely an hour after I thought everyone else had gone to bed when I heard a loud scream. Not Sherlock, but the other boy, Timothy. The scream however had come from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.” Mycroft, who up until this point had been reciting these words carefully and with some manner of detachment is now resting a hand against his face; looking towards the crime scene photos still taped to the wall.

“I ran in that direction and what I saw was Timothy standing away from the slightly open door of Sherlock’s room, he was shaking and seemed unable to move. I quickly went into Sherlock’s room and...” Mycroft seems almost reluctant to continue. John has his elbow resting on the armrest of the chair with his hand covering his mouth. “Sherlock was sitting curled against the wall, catatonic and holding a statue of Norman Bethune in his right hand. It was a gift to Sherlock when he was six, our father had an interest in military history, not just that of England.” Mycroft breathed deeply. “I also noticed that Andrew Morgan was dead and lying on the ground. His trousers were unzipped. The evidence before my eyes was impossible to ignore, deducing what happened was both easy and horrifying. I went over to Sherlock and picked him up; he was holding the statue very tightly. It was then I noticed blood, Sherlock’s, staining the back of his pyjama bottoms.” Mycroft breathes in a shaking breath, and wipes a hand over his face; resting the back of it briefly against his forehead.

John feels sick. Sick and enraged. The hand not covering his mouth is clenching tightly against his thigh.

“I won’t go into details, it was disgustingly obvious what was done to Sherlock and that Sherlock had retaliated in self-defence. I’ve never quite figured out the exact details of what happened, but the end result was clear and I knew what I had to do. I used all the power I had then, a minor fraction compared to what I carry now though it was still significant, all the favours I was already owed – for which there were many, and organized the following; I called somebody I trusted to take Sherlock to the hospital and dispose of the statue properly, discreetly; the possibility of my parents waking up would’ve brought in too many complications. I came up with a plausible excuse for Sherlock’s absence later. I stayed home for a little while to deal with the scene and Timothy. I tried talking with the boy, but he kept on shouting repeatedly, he killed my father! He killed my father! I don’t believe he saw the entirety of what happened; all he saw was Sherlock giving his father a fatal blow to the head. So, Timothy quickly became my main problem.” Mycroft takes a deep breath.

 “I was fully intending on making Andrew Morgan’s death appear an accident, which wouldn’t have been difficult if it weren’t for Timothy. I had to both disqualify any testimony he could possibly give and get him away so I could deal with the scene itself. I picked up Timothy, he struggled. I locked him in another guest room while I called in yet another favour mixed in with strategic blackmail and got a doctor from a psychiatric institution in London to helicopter over nearby and drive to the house. We agreed on multiple diagnoses severe enough to ensure he would stay in hospital, a delusional state brought on by extreme trauma, and paranoid schizophrenia being among them. The doctor immediately took him back to the institution. The fact that Timothy had no next of kin made ensuring his continued stay in the institution easier. I am digressing though; let’s go back to the scene.” Mycroft ponders for a moment, and John is horrified at both what happened to Sherlock and Mycroft’s treatment of the young Timothy.

 “Forensic evidence investigation was grossly inadequate compared with today, with the calls I made to several members of the police force and my moving the body, removing all evidence of Andrew Morgan from Sherlock’s bedroom, making it look like he had fallen down the stairs and died was relatively simple. It was a few hours later when I finally called the police to report Andrew Morgan’s death. As I ensured it would, his death was officially ruled an accident. They talked to his son, and due to both the diagnosis and records I helped falsify anything he told them was disregarded as the ravings of an unwell and traumatised boy. Sherlock was never brought under any suspicion or exposed to any questions as to what happened, which was my primary intention throughout this enterprise.” Mycroft pauses and watches John cautiously. The latter is unmoving, looking at Mycroft with shock.

“Now allow me to explain the crux of the problem that most relates to now. Sherlock didn’t come out of his catatonic state until two weeks later, when he did he had no memory of what happened. Not of being assaulted, not of killing Andrew Morgan, and not of Timothy or any memory associated with the events or people involved. Dissociative Amnesia. A form of further self-defence, Sherlock’s mind completely buried the memories of what happened to him. When he enquired why he couldn’t remember the last two weeks and why he was in a hospital, I told him he’d fallen out of bed while sleeping, hit his head – which is what I convincingly told our parents – and didn’t wake up until recently. He was only ten, more easily fooled than the Sherlock we know now. His memories have remained repressed all these years, until yesterday. Although I think a part of him was already starting to remember after that first crime scene, it would explain the night terrors, he was fighting against feelings he couldn’t pinpoint or understand. I feared what would happen if Sherlock remembered, I wanted to protect him from any potential downfall of him recalling that knowledge. I did what I could to try and stop Sherlock from pursuing the case, hoping that it would somehow stop the memories from resurfacing. Clearly that didn’t work, and now the very thing I wished to avoid has happened. And Timothy Morgan is proving to be exceedingly difficult to track down.” Mycroft looks away from John and pulls out his mobile, typing something out quickly.

John sags into his armchair, entirely stunned with no clue what to say...what happened to Sherlock, and he was only ten... “Oh god.” John gasps, feeling bile swirl uncomfortably in his stomach. _Fuck, if Andrew Morgan were still alive I’d murder him happily myself._

“The night terror of Sherlock’s I witnessed, he said something I found to be most curious, although not surprising. You might find it interesting. He said ‘John saved me’. Do you have any idea on what he meant by that?” Mycroft asks. John shakes his head, Mycroft’s gut-wrenching explanation still echoing loudly inside his ears. “Sherlock killed Andrew Morgan by use of a Norman Bethune statue; he was an army doctor as you know. In essence, the statue that killed Mr. Morgan saved Sherlock any further pain that Mr. Morgan would likely have continued to commit. When Sherlock was in the disjointed awareness of his night terror, he thought the statue was you, in that moment, I am sure Sherlock – though not aware at the time – was believing that _you_ saved him from possibly being hurt again.”

John breathes in a shuddering breath. _Oh god, Sherlock_...John suddenly feels horribly guilty for all the anger, mistrust and frustration he’d been either feeling or taking out on Sherlock the past week. No wonder Sherlock was acting the way he was. Mycroft said he was fighting against feelings he couldn’t pinpoint or understand. That on top of the feelings themselves...Sherlock would be more than frustrated, and very angry. John didn’t know, how could he have known? Even so, that doesn’t change the guilt he’s feeling. All that Mycroft has just told him makes sense, John very much wishes it wasn’t true, but it is and nothing John can say or do will change that.

John has no idea how this will affect his relationship with Sherlock, let alone how Sherlock is dealing with all this. The case still needs to be dealt with, and now John, though he does feel some manner of compassion for Timothy (both for the horrible way Mycroft treated him and seeing his father being killed) he needs to be held accountable for the deaths and the kidnapped boys. This case just became a lot more personal.

While he was thinking all this, Mycroft had been watching him, assessing him.

“John, I told you this because I believed it to be important for explaining Sherlock’s behaviour the past week and because Sherlock now knows, I doubt he would’ve ever told you fully, it will have bearing on the case. When Sherlock returns, we’ll-” Mycroft is interrupted by the sound of his mobile ringing.

John watches Mycroft answer, though he’s still thinking about what Mycroft told him. Suddenly, John’s attention is further caught by Mycroft. His face has unexpectedly gone the littlest bit pale.

Terror grips John deathly tight. He bolts out of the chair.

_“What’s happened?”_

Mycroft murmurs a few quiet and livid words John can’t hear. He then stands up as well, worry and anger cracking through that carefully crafted veneer.

“Sherlock got into a white sedan thirty minutes ago and managed to circumvent my surveillance. We’ve lost him.”


	14. Chapter 14

“None of the men I hired to assist me ever came here, I paid them with the sizable stash of money we always kept hidden away here; it’s how I’ve survived these past months. My grandfather built this house off the grid as a sort of safe haven for anyone in the family. My father and I used it often. Now, I’m the only left. It seemed only fitting to use it now.” Timothy jabs Sherlock again in the back, forcing him to walk forward just a little bit faster.

“You really should’ve hired more efficient men. Shooting the cabby to make the car crash just to immobilize John and me was really rather crude and unnecessary.” Sherlock speaks in a monotone.

“I gave them the freedom to get the job done whatever the cost, although admittedly killing anyone without my authorization was out of line.” Timothy says with some irritation.

“Never trust people who willingly commit crimes for money, just one of your many mistakes.”

“Shut up.” Timothy emphasizes with a press of the gun harder into Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock sighs and continues to look around, taking intimate notice of the smallest of details.

“It is an interesting legacy.” Sherlock drawls as he observes the inside of the cabin-like house.

Timothy ignores him.

After yesterday, several things quickly slotted into place within his mind palace, not just in regards to himself but to Timothy and the case as well. For just the aspect of the veil lifting and all the pieces forming a completed puzzle, Sherlock is exceedingly relieved. His emotional side, a much stronger and...painful presence more so than usual, is consistently wishing that he could’ve figured it out in a less grotesque and personally revealing way. The fact that his carefully practised disconnection between himself and his emotions dissolved, and had been dissolving despite his most focused efforts (if he were to be honest, for quite some time), is deeply unsettling. A weakness he never condoned nor wanted to experience. Sherlock has been fluctuating between feeling unbearably sick at the memories that have now resurfaced and summarily, oddly...liberated. Now that he is aware of the source of his lack of control he can now deal with everything more capably.

However, Sherlock still finds himself feeling more than a little raw against his wishes. The intensity of these emotions, both in his body and psyche, is something Sherlock has never had to deal with. He would never admit it out loud, but it is frightening. The feeling, so strong it’s almost an instinct, to find a corner and dwell in these feelings of emptiness and guilt, and stay there, try to forget the...what happened, is overwhelming.

All of this is significantly out of Sherlock’s depth. For the first time in his life, Sherlock feels as though he’s attempting to navigate his mind palace with complete sensory deprivation. The only other instance that has any similarity to now was when Sherlock came back from his three year departure, and even that was incredibly different. He didn’t understand John’s reaction at first. He never thought John would be so adversely affected by his “death”, nor that resuming his life in London would be quite that difficult.

_John._ The thought of John, an intriguing paradox of ordinary and highly interesting, a most baffling individual, brings up a whole other slew of memories and observations. Now that the floodgate has been metaphorically opened, Sherlock feels a strong sense of unease over how John will react to knowing. John will feel protective, angry and compassion, but how will their friendship be affected? How will John really feel and think? Sherlock is certain very little will change on his part, but Sherlock finds himself puzzling over how John will react. Sherlock, on top of everything else, feels worthless and ashamed; will John see him that way too? The thought is...unpleasant to say the least. Whether he likes it or not, no matter the ridiculous drama he professed unfairly to John during the past week, John has become a vital part to Sherlock’s sense of being. Sherlock does not want to experience, again, what not having John in his life feels like. It is a thought dripping with sentiment and borderline romanticism, but it is the truth.

Sherlock will finish compartmentalizing and processing all this perplexing data later, right now, there is a case to finish. Sherlock notes with bitter displeasure, this case doesn’t hold the same thrilling stimulus Sherlock usually feels when dealing with serial killers.

 With unnecessary force and a 32.Caliber gun, Timothy is guiding Sherlock through the large house towards a point near the back. Sherlock makes sure to analyze and observe everything surrounding him on the way, the smallest of details causing Sherlock to both discard and confirm multiple theories regarding Timothy... _interesting._

The most obvious being that Timothy doesn’t know Sherlock was raped before he killed his father in self defence. It has been obvious since the beginning, now that Sherlock is aware of the details.

There is another theory that is increasing in likelihood, being cemented and formed in Sherlock’s mind, the most obvious indicator of which is the kidnapped boys. They’re obviously still alive, and in this house.

If Sherlock’s observations are correct they are heading towards where they are being kept now.

Another jab with the gun causes Sherlock to be briefly disjointed from his train of thought.

“I came here willingly, there is no point threatening me with a gun.” Sherlock says with slight exasperation. _Idiot,_ _unnecessary theatrics._

“I _really_ wish you wouldn’t talk. _Be. Quiet._ We’re almost there.” Timothy’s voice is firm, though barely managing to remain controlled; indicating extreme emotional distress.

That could either be an advantage or a problem. “I’ve heard a lot about you Sherlock; people say you are a cruel and unfeeling man. Only I know just how true that is.”

_Wrong._

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder possibly, definitely severe emotional and psychological instability. His actions are not consistent with his apparent motivations. Interestingly, not a sociopath or a psychopath as a less observant person might think. Neither of those disorders are a necessary requirement to being a serial killer. Love, most especially hate fuelled by love, can drive those of normally perfectly sound mind to commit the most horrific of crimes.

“I assure you, there are plenty of people who are aware of how cruel I am.” Sherlock speaks in a low voice, continuing to flick his gaze around (they’re in a surprisingly long hallway, arched ceiling and entirely wood panelled, headed towards a bedroom – no, a storage room).

“Like John Watson?” Timothy asks, his voice surprisingly monotone.

Sherlock sounds a bit morose when he says; “Yes.”

“He cannot be a good man to have lived with you, let alone befriend you, all these years and not do a thing about your cruelty. In my opinion, he doesn’t deserve to exist anymore than you do.” Timothy emphasizes with a painful jab from his gun ( _unpractised, but nevertheless even the most inexperienced are usually capable of killing someone at point blank range_ )

Sherlock controls his urge to defend John, refusing to rise to this man’s bait.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock is successful at saying this with this nonchalance, even though the very thought of John not existing and the implied threat from this man makes Sherlock feel sick and want to murder this man.

That is not what Sherlock came here to do though. _Focus._

As suspected, the comment makes Timothy growl in frustration.

Sherlock and Timothy arrive before an ordinary, thick wooden door. Several locks adorn the seam, all of them unlocked except for one.

“Open the door. I made sure to unlock most of them before you arrived, all you need in this.” Timothy made sure to press the gun tightly against Sherlock before reaching around and handing Sherlock a key.

“How courteous of you.”

Sherlock took it, and with a steady hand he unlocked the door.

“It’s more than you deserve. You murdered my father Sherlock, I don’t care if you were a fucking child or not. _You_ are going to experience what _HE did!_ ” Timothy shakes in anger.

_I suspected as much._ Sherlock feels a faint sickness at Timothy’s words; it is obvious Timothy doesn’t know about what happened before he witnessed Sherlock kill his father, however the very thought of experiencing what Andrew Morgan did to him...Sherlock would rather die than be forced to do that.

A plan formulating within his mind, Sherlock opens the door...and is immediately hit by the awful smell. Sherlock is used to the most horrid of smells produced by living beings, dead or alive. This is particularly bad. Excrement and urine is pungent and nauseating in the air.

The room is pitch-black, no windows. He hears the sound of a light switch being flicked on before the room (a cement floor, extremely cold, wood walls and ceiling) is flooded with fluorescent light.

_Oh god._

Old rickety shelves have been pushed against the side walls, creating a relatively large open space. Directly across from Sherlock are three ten year old boys, huddled under a soiled blanket together; shivering, dirty and terrified. All of them have dark curly hair, just like him.

 The source of the smell is primarily from the three large buckets directly beside them. 

Sherlock generally doesn’t feel any particular care about the victims in the cases he works on; emotions get in the way of objectivity and reason. He is reminded of the short conversation he had with John a long time ago;

_“Will caring about them help save them?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”_

It is a mistake Sherlock has found himself making more often ever since returning from his three year exile, taking down Moriarty’s web spider by spider, inch by inch.

It is a mistake Sherlock is finding himself making now.

Sherlock is observing far too much detail for his comfort, and what he sees makes him feel physically ill, and enraged. _Is this empathy? John would be proud._

Sherlock wants to go to them, check them over and make sure they are otherwise unharmed. Not yet. Sherlock will free these boys, deal with Timothy and save his own life in the process. He has to. He needs one more iota of data. He has made sure though that if this plan fails, he has a back up.

Timothy takes the key from Sherlock, locks the door from the inside and pockets the key.

“ _You_ caused this Sherlock; it is because of _you_ these boys are even here. I’m just doing what needs to be done, you didn’t even remember! I _had_ to show you! There would be no justice if you were punished for something you didn’t even recollect! These men deserved to die! It was both their fate and that of the boys to be used as a tool to hold you accountable, and to give you the end you coldly put upon my father. These boys are _evil_ little creatures; you need to look into their eyes as one of them kills you. If you don’t comply, I will kill them, torture you slowly and then kill you anyway. Do not believe I won’t. Pick one Sherlock, which murderer do you want to be killed by?” Timothy moves between Sherlock and the boys as he speaks, growing louder and angrier, his features twisted beyond any human recognition, his eyes burning with hatred unbelievably intense, his voice moves between a cold professionalism and hot fury.

_Well, that explains how he was able to convince the boys to kill the men, and the men to remain still and allow it to happen._

_These men deserved to die...interesting._

His threats are hardly original, but Sherlock believes that he is very serious about carrying them out if he isn’t obeyed.

That cannot be allowed to happen.

Sherlock cautiously walks forward towards the boys, hands clasped behind his back. Timothy is watching him carefully, gun pointed in his direction, as Sherlock makes a show of looking the boys over.

His face no longer directly visible to Timothy, Sherlock tries to convey some manner of reassurance for the boys without words. Two of them are staring at him with wide-eyed terror, the third, the one that has been here the shortest period of time has dried blood on the corner of his mouth, his jaw at slightly awkward angle...he is frightened like the others, but he is staring at Sherlock unflinchingly; a challenge, sitting in the middle of the huddle with both his arms around the other two...he has at least two or three younger siblings (which, now that Sherlock recognizes him from the photograph, coincides with one of the case files Sherlock picked out that day when Lestrade came over); protective. This boy refused at first to kill the man, but was beaten into doing it.

Sherlock kneels down; he swiftly feels the gun press against his head.

“Don’t.” Timothy spits.

“I am not going to touch them.” Sherlock says calmly, looking up at Timothy.

Timothy narrows his eyes into beady slits, but he nods and backs away; gun still trained on Sherlock.

The boys cringe away from him, tears running down their faces.

“Are you going to hurt us too?” The middle boy – Dean (from the memory of the file he also remembers something else...), speaks in a young, brave yet wobbly voice.

Sherlock can’t say anything or do anything that’ll give away his intentions, not with Timothy right there with a loaded gun.

Sherlock flicks his eyes very deliberately down towards his left hand, which is resting on his knee and is obscured to Timothy’s view.

Dean, an obviously intelligent boy doesn’t look down.

Sherlock signs the letter’s ‘n’ and ‘o’.

Dean doesn’t make any indication he saw anything, but Sherlock knows he did. Sherlock looks at him for a brief second in approval and quickly stands up. The missing persons file mentioned that Dean’s mother is deaf, and he learned BSL at an early age as a result.

“Well? CHOOSE! _Now._ ” Timothy yells.

Sherlock backs away and turns to face Timothy, turning his calculating deductive gaze on the man, focusing on his face, his stance, everything he knows and remembers about him clicking and coming together in his mind... _ah._ Sherlock’s mind sparks with realization. That familiar rush of having figured a small detail that had been eluding him is soured by the presence of the boys, shivering and scared beside him, and the realization itself.

Without thinking about it, Sherlock moves to put himself between the boys and Timothy. Sherlock once again clasps his hand loosely behind his back.

“I have.” Sherlock watches Timothy carefully, gauging his reaction.

Timothy seems to sense something is off; he frowns a little and shakes his gun in direction of the boys.

“Which one?” Timothy asks, his voice cautious.

_Here we go._

“None.”

Timothy is a picture of disbelief.

“What? I don’t think you understand-” He starts to say, his face twisting with anger and confusion.

“Oh I understand. I understand only too well. Your mother died when you were three or four years of age, you and you father were then the only members left of your family. For seven years you were only allowed to leave the house for school, programmed by your father into thinking staying with him at home was all you should ever do, you hated going to school. From the time you were four until his death when you were ten, you were repeatedly sexually abused by him-”

“NO!” Timothy screamed. “You’re making that up! What do you think you’re playing at? YOU killed my father! _He_ would never, _ever_ hurt me!” Angry tears are forming in Timothy’s eyes, his neck is taut with tension and his gun arm shakes dangerously.

Sherlock feels vaguely ill, but he has to continue.

“That’s what you so desperately want to believe, you developed repressed memory syndrome in your adolescence, you couldn’t live with the knowledge that the one person who was supposed to love you like a father, the only person you were close to on any level, committed those terrible acts against you. You were a child; you didn’t understand and still loved your father. But you were afraid of him, you hated him too. You became accustomed to him visiting your room every night. When he didn’t do so the night you stayed at Holmes manor, you went looking for him. You eventually came across my bedroom-” Sherlock struggles to keep his voice steady here, knowing what he has to do, has to say, to make Timothy see (it is his best chance to save them all), and not wanting to. Not wanting to hear the words come out of his mouth, that would be further confirmation. He knows it’s true...he doesn’t want it to be true. Timothy is watching him, eyes frozen open, gun still pointed in Sherlock’s direction. “-and through the only slightly open door you saw me against a wall, near my desk, your father walking towards me. It is then you watched as I picked up the closest object and swung at your father, hitting him in the temple. He died instantly.”

_“NO!”_ Timothy cries out, his gun hand shaking even more.

_Dangerous. Have to keep going._

Sherlock gathers what little control he has to stem the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

He points to the children with one hand.

“Why haven’t you killed these children? If it were really me you are angry at, why not kill them? Why have you forced them to kill men who _represent_ your father? Was it just to make me remember? No. It was because after all these years, you never really understood what happened. It didn’t make sense to you, you couldn’t process it. So you re-created the event, over and over again, using the excuse of punishing me, making me remember, getting to me, to justify your actions. When in actuality you were trying to figure out what really happened, even though subconsciously you knew exactly what happened. You both logically and emotionally just knew. You didn’t want to be right, you wanted there to be another reason. And yet, you also wanted to remember. You knew once you remembered it would all make sense. You weren’t thinking this consciously, that much is obvious. You never saw all of what happened, but you knew. Your father r-raped me in my bed-”

“SHUT UP!” Timothy screeches, brandishing his gun closer to Sherlock’s face. The children begin to cry behind Sherlock.

Sherlock stares down the gun and Timothy as calmly as he can (he clenches his fists when he feels his arms begin to shake), he has to finish this. He continues as if Timothy didn’t interrupt.

“-I tried to escape afterwards, but I tripped and fell against a wall. As I was standing up, your father came towards me. That is when you showed up and saw what you did. You may not have seen it, but you felt anger, confusion, a child who didn’t understand why his father was using another boy instead of him; you were _four years old_ when he started abusing you. You were raised thinking it was ok. However a part of you also wondered why he was doing it at all. You hated him for it, didn’t want to accept that it was wrong. The real reason why you forced these innocent boys to kill those men is because your father _deserved_ it, and it is for that reason these boys are alive. Because it wasn’t their fault, the nature of the circumstances was different but we were forced to kill somebody because we were afraid. In some twisted way, keeping them alive, forcing them to kill was your way of protecting them, because you never were.” As angry and enraged Sherlock is towards this man for what he has done, and for threatening John, for that reason alone he would kill him in a heartbeat if he had to, Sherlock is morbidly fascinated by the compassion he feels as well. It was obvious to Sherlock once he remembered what happened to him, that it had also happened to Timothy. Many, many times. It was only once Sherlock was here that other pieces of the puzzle that wasn’t making sense finally come together in a picture he could recognize.

Sherlock is far from being a saint, but he does feel sorry for Timothy. A type of empathy Sherlock himself would’ve scorned years ago. He still doesn’t understand the purpose it serves now, but unlike before, he no longer scorns it.

Timothy is near sobbing now, anger shining in those dark brown eyes, refusal to believe what he’s being told.

“You had better stop fucking lying right NOW!” Timothy puts himself deeply in Sherlock’s person space, clutching a fistful of Sherlock’s coat collar and shoving his angry face into the controlled expression of the detectives. Timothy holds the gun up to Sherlock’s temple.

Sherlock, assuming the risk, takes a deep breath and finishes.

“Timothy Morgan, the real reason you needed me to remember was because you couldn’t, you brought me here to be killed, but in truth, you brought me here because I remembered, you wanted to know what happened. You want me to stop you.”

Timothy is shaking violently, as result the gun keeps bumping threateningly against Sherlock’s skull. Timothy’s teeth are biting into his lip hard enough to draw blood, now dripping down his chin. His nose is near brushing against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is careful not to move, and simply waits. He deduced that Timothy would react violently and shoot him, or he would drop the gun. Despite the violence this man has expressed, to Sherlock the latter seemed the most likely, so he took the risk and told Timothy everything.

Right now, Sherlock is fully expecting Timothy to drop the gun.

That is not what happens.

Several things occur simultaneously.

The key Timothy had placed in his pocket clatters onto the cement floor, by way of a hole in Timothy’s pocket, very close to the boys.

Both Sherlock and Timothy turn in surprise just as Dean runs forward and grabs the key while simultaneously pushing the other two to stand.

_Damn it._

“RUN!” Dean screams in a very high voice.

_Damn it!_

Sherlock feels Timothy’s gun hand tense and a sense of horror burns in Sherlock as he sees the gun rise in the boys (now struggling through pain and torment to reach the door) direction.

Sherlock automatically grabs Timothy’s wrist and forces it and the gun towards the ceiling just a shot is fired.

Timothy and Sherlock struggle for possession and control of the gun, hands grasping at wrists, Timothy is surprisingly strong but Sherlock is stronger. He is confident he’ll be able to get the gun shortly.

Just then Timothy pushes himself into Sherlock and the two of them fall to the on top of the thin mattress the boys were laying on, Timothy atop Sherlock. The gun is squished awkwardly between them, still primarily gripped by Timothy.

Sherlock’s heart is pounding fiercely in his ears, Timothy is growling; still shaking slightly.

Timothy head-butts Sherlock hard, he groans painfully, but still Sherlock doesn’t release his hold on Timothy’s wrists and the gun.

Sherlock twists Timothy’s wrist in an effort to get him to drop it, but he accidently presses one of Timothy’s fingers on the trigger.

A shot is fired.

The struggling ceases.

Silence.

Blood seeps onto Sherlock’s coat and suit, but it isn’t his. Blood is trickling out of Timothy’s mouth, his eyes wide in shock. They stare at each other for a second before Timothy falls off Sherlock and onto the floor; dropping the gun onto Sherlock’s stomach in the process.

Sherlock throws the gun away and moves immediately to crouch over Timothy.

Timothy is coughing, blood already pooling in his mouth.

Possible internal bleeding.

Sherlock unzips Timothy’s jacket to examine the wound.

A stomach wound.

Little chance of survival given current location.

Death is almost certain.

 Sherlock has little experience in this area, but he knows getting the bleeding to stop is paramount. He frantically looks around for a cloth, anything, so long as it isn’t highly absorbent material....Sherlock quickly strips off his coat (ignoring the intense cold of the room), and since there’s blood on it anyway, he takes off his suit jacket and presses it firmly against the wound on Timothy’s stomach.

_Damn it, where are you John?_

Timothy groans painfully at the pressure.

“No...Don’t.” He coughs out more blood as he struggles to speak. Sherlock whips his head around to face Timothy, looking at him with puzzlement. “Don’t, do...that.” Timothy nods with difficulty in the direction of his stomach and Sherlock holding his own suit jacket against the wound.

 Sherlock looks from the wound to Timothy... _oh._

 He shakes his head.

 Sherlock doesn’t understand. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Let me die, please.” Timothy huffs out with great effort, the pallor of his face paling from loss of blood.

_This doesn’t make sense. A minute ago he didn’t believe him and was going to shoot one of the boys, why would he suddenly want to die now?_

Sherlock just shakes his head again. Timothy is almost certainly going to die anyway, but something in Sherlock is preventing him from stopping in his efforts to prevent that.

“I want to die please; I don’t want to live any longer with...with the memory, please.”

 Sherlock focuses intently on Timothy’s face, there are tears there in his eyes, he is no longer watching Sherlock with anger and hate, but something else....pain. Not physical pain, his body would primarily be in shock. Emotional pain, agony, guilt, the vestiges of that anger and hurt drifting away from either the reality of death, the shock of the blood or something that Sherlock doesn’t quite understand.

 Sherlock observes in him, something eerily parallel to himself; a wounded, scarred child. Sherlock struggles to remain objective, and not to let-

“You understand...please, I’m going to die anyway, please...I don’t think I have the strength to, to do it...my-myself...” Timothy’s voice is getting weaker; he gives a gesture towards the gun on the floor.

_Oh._

Sherlock frowns, releases the pressure on Timothy’s stomach and retrieves the gun.

He instantly returns and kneels beside Timothy, the latter nods encouragingly.

Sherlock is undecided on what to do. With one hand he resumes the pressure on Timothy’s stomach; with the other he holds the gun tightly.

Timothy has approximately five to ten minutes of life left; no one will get here in time.

“I’m...sorry, it was my fault. I should’ve...” Timothy speaks, sounding even weaker than before. His body begins to shake with shock and cold.

Sherlock, not knowing what else to do, retrieves his coat and throws it over Timothy, surprised at his action.

“You were a child. It wasn’t your fault.” Sherlock says with conviction.

 Timothy shakes his head.

 “Kill me, please...” Timothy murmurs painfully.

 Sherlock grips the gun tightly, staring at Timothy.

_Should he show him mercy? Would this even be mercy? Or an execution? This is wrong, isn’t it? If he were Timothy, what would he want?_

Sherlock cannot make this decision emotionally. Though truthfully, his decision is already made.

With a steady hand, he raises the gun and point’s it directly at Timothy’s head.

A sad sort of smile appears on Timothy’s face.

“Th-Thank-you.” Timothy cries.

Sherlock frowns.

“I’m...not sure I can do this.” Sherlock surprises himself by saying.

“You can, please, help me...you were right, yes...you understand...”

 Of course he was right; for once Sherlock wishes he wasn’t.

 His fingers wraps around the trigger. His outward appearance showing cold determination, inside his heart and mind palace are awash with uncertainty and something akin to grief.

 “The only reason I am doing this is because I understand.”

 Timothy nods.

 Sherlock pulls the trigger.

 


	15. Chapter 15

It is only twenty minutes later when John, along with Mycroft and some of his team (agents nearer by to Sherlock’s location were contacted and arrived before John, Mycroft, Anthea, and a few others) arrive at the house where Sherlock and the boys are.

By that time, John had long been ready to _throttle_ Sherlock for running off on his own again.

Roughly an hour (of hell) after Mycroft and John received the news that Sherlock circumvented his brother’s surveillance, the GPS on Sherlock’s phone came on (they assume Sherlock had his phone turned off) for about half an hour (it moved during that time, showing the direction Sherlock was headed) and then it was turned off again. Mycroft, and John to a degree, deduced that it was Sherlock’s way of letting them know where he was. However, given the area they would still have to search and the fact that Sherlock seemed to purposefully wait before letting them know. Sherlock would be without backup for quite a while. Mycroft deduced a few more things about Sherlock during that time, none of which made John any happier, one being that Sherlock must’ve received another notification from the perpetrator (Mycroft added that Sherlock had also received a text the day they were confronted by Timothy Morgan, and Sherlock had told the cabby to drive to the address given – _thanks for telling me Sherlock_ – although Sherlock had no idea the cabby would be shot) prompted the detective to go, another was that Sherlock was likely instructed to discard his mobile and make sure he didn’t have it on his person upon arrival.

What John angrily didn’t understand, still doesn’t to a degree, is why Sherlock _had_ to go _alone._

John flings the door of Mycroft’s car wide open and practically leaps out of the vehicle.

Before him is a long, two-story, rectangular house. It appears to be a cabin though not quite, the outside is made out of half cut long tree logs, and is far away from any major civilization; surrounded by English country side, made enormously chilly by the strong cold wind blowing.

Multiple people are standing around the house, members of Mycroft’s team presumably here taking care of whatever happened. Besides the one John arrived in, there are three other cars and what looks like an ambulance of some kind...the sight of which sends John into a dizzying panic. They were informed by those who arrived first that Sherlock was alright, as were the boys, and Timothy Morgan was dead.

John needs to see Sherlock for himself though.

_Where is that mad bastard?_

“Sherlock!” John calls out, pushing through the crowd of people...the action painfully familiar. John swallows. _I swear, when I see that man-_

“John! I’m over here.”

The deep baritone is blessed relief. John quickly turns in the direction he heard the familiar voice come from, and sees him standing a fair distance from the commotion; facing away from John and towards the thin road curving into the country expanse. His thick, dark curly hair is whipping fiercely across his face, his coat is absent and in its stead is a long, thick grey blanket; fluttering around his ankles.

John runs towards him. He soon reaches Sherlock and takes a moment to breathe deeply, fighting the urge tackle him and demand to know how he could be so idiotic...John knows that’s extreme, and he would never actually physically do it, but after everything, the idea of Sherlock sneaking off to go confront a bloody maniac _again_...it doesn’t sit well with John to say the least. If that had to happen, John would’ve wanted to be with Sherlock.

John watches the detective for a moment, taking in his elegant profile.

The events of the past week must’ve been grueling for Sherlock, not to mention the heartbreaking knowledge John was told by Mycroft that Sherlock himself has only recently remembered.

_What do we do now?_

John will try to be there for Sherlock the best way he knows how, while still respecting Sherlock’s own wish for privacy. He has never known, until now, someone close to him who had been sexually abused, whether it was as an adult or child. As a doctor though, he has – sadly – seen it. Especially when the abuse involves a child, never is it something you forget.

Seeing Sherlock’s face now, knowing what he must be dealing with (Sherlock can claim omnipotence in the area of emotions all he likes, John has seen Sherlock’s pain with his own eyes, even though he can’t begin to comprehend what it must feel like for Sherlock) John can’t help but want to hug the bugger and never let him go. Regardless of the fact that Sherlock would most certainly rebuff the action.

John is still livid though.

“Are you alright Sherlock?” John moves to stand in front of Sherlock, placing his hands angrily on his hips.

Sherlock turns his head and looks down towards John with those kaleidoscope eyes. John stares back unblinkingly.

Immediately John knows something’s different. That frustration and painful confusion that were immovable presences in and around Sherlock are no longer there, instead there is a kind of clarity, and resigned sadness John doubts Sherlock would let anyone but John see.

There is also uncertainty forming around Sherlock’s brow as he gazes at John.

“What do you think?” Sherlock appears to ask with genuine curiosity, gauging John’s reaction closely.

 John sighs and let’s his arms fall. _What do I think?_ He closes his eyes briefly and re-opens them again.

There is a strong subtext to that question. Sherlock is tentative. He is dealing with something that is a shock to both his physical and mental state of being, and the autonomous detective is just as human as anyone else would be in this situation. _How on earth do you deal with something like this?_ John doesn’t know, but he believes he knows Sherlock.

So, he walks up to him, pausing briefly to see if the physical proximity is alright. Sherlock doesn’t appear to tense or move, so John reaches up and gently rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

 “I think you will be.” John gives him a small smile and squeezes both his shoulders.

 Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change for a few seconds, then he looks off to the side away from John and his eyes cloud over; the look he gets when retreating into his mind palace.

John stays where he is and waits.

Sherlock comes back a few minutes later and looks at John with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t know what to do John.” Sherlock looks pained at having admitted such a thing.

 John exhales sadly and throws his arms around his best-friend; squeezing tightly, relieved beyond what any words could express that Sherlock is safe for the moment...from outside forces at least.

 Sherlock tenses briefly, but quickly relaxes and cautiously raises his arms to wrap around John’s back.

 “Never, _ever_ do that again or I _will_ murder you in your sleep. Bloody git, you’ll be the death of me.” John means it as a light tease, but given the situation he curses his mouth and is worried he’s just said something horribly insensitive. That worry is soon discarded however as Sherlock begins to giggle softly, the warm rumbling a welcome vibration to John’s frazzled state.

 “I make no promises.” Sherlock says, also with a mildly joking tone. John rolls his eyes. Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I had to go John, and I _needed_ to deal with Timothy alone. I won’t apologize for that, however I am sorry for the distress I caused you.” Sherlock is most definitely no longer teasing, his voice hitching for a fleeting moment when Sherlock mentions Timothy...John will ask what happened later.

 John frowns.

“Alright.” John sighs deeply. “I still hate being left behind Sherlock.”

A memory from their reunion after Sherlock returned from the dead enters both their minds.

Suddenly, something becomes clear to John, where before it was only hazy. The fall, Sherlock’s death...the way John felt in reaction to Sherlock’s behaviour, before he knew the truth, his anger and frustration towards Sherlock for not confiding, the feeling that he was hiding something, had everything to do with unresolved feelings from what Sherlock did before. He faked his death, didn’t tell John, left him, and came back as though nothing had happened.

 John had hoped he was moving on quickly from that, it is a period of his life he would much rather let go of.

The common axiom “all in good time” floats across John’s mind.

“I know.” Sherlock emphasizes this with a careful squeeze around John’s middle. “At the risk of sounding disgustingly sentimental, I truly was lost without my blogger.”

Sherlock rests his cheek gently against John’s, a rare moment.

Something in Sherlock’s voice makes John think he isn’t just referring to today, did Sherlock read John’s mind again and see what he’d just been thinking about? John wouldn’t put it past him.

“You are the most magnificent, brilliant and idiotic man I have ever met.”

“ _Idiotic?_ ”

Sherlock sounds so affronted that John has to laugh. Sherlock grumbles.     

“I mean it as a compliment.” John says.

“How is being called idiotic a compliment?” Sherlock asks, sounding very confused.

John shrugs. “It depends on your perspective I guess, depending on the context, idiotic isn’t always something negative or matter-of-fact.”

Sherlock growls with frustration.

“That makes no sense.”

John smiles.

“Glad I can still stump you occasionally.”

John can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes narrowing. Then Sherlock asks John something that John never thought he would hear come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Are you in love with me John?” To John’s surprise, Sherlock doesn’t sound at all scornful, merely curious.

 John tenses briefly, not really sure how to answer that question. And didn’t Sherlock already say he believes John does? Also, you don’t have to be in love with someone to care for them deeply and be wholeheartedly devoted to them. Sherlock however isn’t adept in how emotions work, acting on a more instinctual emotional level than a conscious, aware one.

 “Why are you asking me that?” John asks, a little unsure.

“Curiosity, trying to figure out why you seem so...devoted to _me_ , even though you have frequently said that I am, as you put it, an annoying dick.” A note of confusion seeps into Sherlock’s tone when he says ‘me’.

_Ah._

John briefly considers his response.

“Sherlock, I don’t believe my love for you is romantic in the traditional sense of the word. However, if you would grant me a, how did you put it? A ‘disgustingly sentimental moment’, I will say you are the love of my life.” Now _there_ is something John never thought he would actually say out loud. John emphazises this with a playful poke to Sherlock’s side and a subsequent tightening of their hug.

Sherlock hums, deep in thought.

“You’re right John. That was disgustingly sentimental.”

John smiles at the tease in Sherlock’s words.

“Thanks.” John mutters as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m still not sure I...entirely understand.” Sherlock postulates.

“Have you ever heard of something called a ‘bromance’?”

Sherlock shivers with distaste. “You did _not_ just say that utterly _idiotic_ term.”

John giggles. “What did I just say about the word idiotic hm?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“You are ever a mystery John.” Sherlock lifts his head away from John’s, but keeps his arms in place.

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as compliment.” John says.

Sherlock nods.

“You should.”

There is silence for a moment or two more, the reality of where they are and why begins to settle into their little sphere and quickly John realizes that he and Sherlock have long since moved passed sharing the longest hug of their acquaintance. John begins to pull away, but is surprised to feel Sherlock respond by squeezing him tighter; preventing John from moving.

“Cold?” John kids.

 “I’m not wearing a coat, and have lost the use of my suit jacket; to top it off I am covered by a grossly inadequate blanket. Of course I’m cold.” Sherlock’s breath is a warm tonic against the cool air.

 “Ah, so I’m just a blanket then?” John smiles faintly, hints of laughter bubbling on his lips.

 “A very suitable, cuddly blanket. It must be those hideous jumpers.” Sherlock adds.

 John laughs, Sherlock reciprocates.

Their light, teasing banter is as much their way of coping with the uncertainty and emotion of the situation as it is reassurance. Their way of letting the other know that in spite of everything, they will be ok.

There will be a lot to talk about, apologies to be made, later.

The case, Sherlock’s actions and what exactly happened in that house will be discussed; points clarified. Lestrade will be informed, and Mycroft and Sherlock will talk as well. Timothy Morgan’s accomplices will be caught and dealt with. The boys will be taken to the hospital, their families notified and they’ll go home.

Sherlock and John will ultimately go back to the barmy sanctity of 221b, both men different, and yet the same.

For now though there’s just _this._

The two of them against the rest of the world.


	16. Chapter 16

“This is ridiculous. I am _not_ wearing these!”

John restrains the urge to chuckle as Sherlock meanders, with a significant frown on his face, into the living room.

“Sherlock. You know it will make Mrs. Hudson happy, she’s been saying for weeks how this Christmas is particularly special. Why not wear them, just this once ok?” John, clad in his favourite Christmas jumper (bright red, dotted with multiple dark green Christmas trees, the one closest to  his neck has a single jingly bell attached the top. Sherlock finds it repulsive), walks up to Sherlock and adjusts the awkwardly placed antlers atop Sherlock’s head.

“They. Are. _Ludicrous_.” Sherlock bites out each word, though without any real venom.

John shrugs.

“They’re Christmassy.” John says as he backs away to observe Sherlock, once again barely restraining the urge to laugh; the antlers match that posh black suit and purple shirt of his surprisingly well.

“They’re covered in _little gold bells John!_ ” Sherlock protests as he throws his arms up in the air. “They _jingle_ whenever I move!” Sherlock looks off to his left and groans as he notices his reflection in the mirror hanging over the blazing fireplace.

John starts humming “jingle bells”. Sherlock shoots him a dark look. The combined ridiculousness (yes, John admits they are ridiculous, though very amusing) of the antlers and the seriousness of Sherlock’s face is enough to finally push John over the edge. He begins laughing hysterically.

Suddenly, Sherlock grins much too widely; John is momentarily reminded of the Grinch.

“Don’t celebrate yet John Hamish Watson, I deduced you would make me wear these asinine antlers this year. So, I prepared for the eventuality.” Sherlock winks. He then disappears down the hallway and into his bedroom.

John groans. _This will not be good._

As he waits for Sherlock, John takes a final glance around the room; alight with primarily white Christmas lights, green garland bordering the mirror, and their modest tree, shorter than John (Sherlock had many teasing quips on that), is decorated with a golden star on top and a single, long strand of multicoloured lights around the boasting branches. A few simply wrapped presents adorn the base.

This morning, Sherlock firmly insisted that John not go near the tree (it is now the early evening of December the 25th), and John is curious as to why. “You’ll see”, Sherlock had said.

On both the coffee table and the kitchen one (very well cleaned off and sanitized, is the one that has been set up for dinner) there are bowls of miniature Christmas crackers and a decorative table wreath with a small, white candle in the middle of each table (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson). The guests will be arriving soon. Mrs. Hudson will be here of course, she’s bringing the Turkey...John and Sherlock had a rather embarrassing incident yesterday when the two of them tried to cook their own Turkey, well...with John having very little cooking experience that extends beyond oatmeal and toast, and Sherlock wanting to turn the whole thing into an experiment on testing certain chemicals on the flesh while cooking at differing temperatures in the oven ( _“For god’s sake Sherlock! Its food not a bloody experiment!”, “The chemicals I want to use aren’t even flammable or harmful when ingested John!”_ ) ...it was a disaster. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson offered with an amused giggle and glad smile that she would cook the turkey and bring it upstairs to their flat when she came over for dinner.

The other guests are Lestrade (he wasn’t happy about being kept out of the loop on what really happened with the case, but accepted it and was satisfied that the man had been dealt with), Molly of course and a highly unusual guest in the form of Mycroft. What is even more unusual was when John suggested inviting him, Sherlock didn’t even protest; he simply shrugged.

Over the past month, the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft has become...not _closer_ per se, but definitely less contentious than before. A few days after Sherlock told John everything that happened at the house, Mycroft came around just as John was leaving for work and was still there when (apparently he never left) John came back several hours later. Mycroft left not long after, giving John a few parting words before leaving the flat. All Sherlock had to say on what happened was this “We talked.” John respected his privacy and didn’t ask further. Whatever they talked about, it was something that seemed to mend a few of the wounds between them.

John’s own relationship (if you could call it that) with Mycroft has also changed. He is still very unhappy with some of the ways Mycroft handled what happened all those years ago, but John can’t deny now that Mycroft really does loves his brother – in his own way. Upon realizing that, John has had a hard time being angry with him all the time.

Sherlock has never been thrilled about hosting Christmas dinner, or any kind of party for that matter, for several reasons. This year though, Sherlock is less defiant about the idea. John figures there are many reasons for that, not the least of which being that this will be the first Christmas since Sherlock’s return. John is extremely aware of that fact. Memories of all the Christmases John spent without Sherlock, some of which were decent and happy for the most part (the happier ones spent with Mary), have been circling John all day. When John saw Sherlock in those antlers though, he was hit with such overwhelming happiness and joy that is has left him with no space to be sad in grief or painful remembrance. Sherlock is here now, and John couldn’t ask for more.

The past month hasn’t been easy to say the least. Sherlock doesn’t have night terrors anymore, but he sporadically still has periods of emotional instability like he did before he remembered. And when he does sleep, Sherlock will have the occasional nightmare. He’ll also sometimes recoil from any manner of touch. Sherlock has outright refused to see a professional, against both the advice of both John and Mycroft. No one else knows about Sherlock other than them. However, considering, John thinks Sherlock is doing surprisingly well. It’s still early days yet, but John will be there for him when Sherlock wants it.

John has also noticed a few interesting differences in Sherlock’s behaviour, some of them subtle, some of them not. He’s less confrontational, less blunt when deducing people (unless they are _particularly_ annoying) and generally he’s more courteous. Of course he is still his abrasive, easily bored, exuberant, enigmatic, arrogant, annoying and shameless self. For which John is honestly glad. The most obvious change in Sherlock’s behaviour is how he is on cases. Much to the surprise of Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade (though he took the change more gracefully), Sherlock will occasionally show a genuine, more obvious measure of compassion towards victims; especially children.

John takes a sip of his whiskey just as Sherlock strides back in...The whiskey sprays out of John’s mouth when he sees what Sherlock is holding...a pair of antlers identical to Sherlock’s.

_Oh bloody hell._

“You can’t be serious.” John groans, staring at the antlers in horror.

“Very. If I have to humiliate myself, you have to join me.” Sherlock jingles the antlers in John’s direction with a positively wicked grin.

“That’s childish.” John rolls his eyes and sets down his glass of whiskey on the end table beside his armchair.

Sherlock shrugs. “I call it being fair.”

Sherlock walks over and holds the antlers above John’s head, raising a single eyebrow at him.

John sighs.

“Fine, go ahead.” John nods stiffly, assuming a soldiers stance to deal with the jingly silliness.

“Really John, you needn’t worry. You’re already wearing that preposterous jumper. That’s humiliating enough.” Sherlock secures the antlers on John’s head with a smug grin.

“I thank-you very much for the reassurance.” John quips sardonically. “How do I look?” John emphasizes this with a shake of his head, causing the bells to jingle loudly.

Sherlock backs away slightly to observe his work, he automatically bursts out in laughter. Not even trying to hold back, unlike John. The latter crosses his arms.

“You look as fantastic as I do John.” Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling with mischief.

John ponders how he’s never seen Sherlock this happy on Christmas before.

“That’s not saying much.”

Soon the two of them are leaning heavily against each other, laughing hysterically and loudly.

  John specifically seems to have overdone his laugh-o-meter, it’s not until he finally reaches out to balance himself against the nearest wall that he looks up and sees Sherlock staring in the direction of the door; expression blank.

John frowns minutely and looks in that direction.

_Oh._

John presses his lips together firmly in effort not to laugh further. All of their guests are standing, grouped in the entrance of the living room of 221b, all with vastly different expressions; carrying various gift bags. Mycroft, dressed in a sharp charcoal grey suit, is looking at them with incredulity. Molly is giggling softly behind her hand; she’s wearing a short, though flowing green dress. Lestrade has the biggest smile on his face, wearing a simple white shirt and dark black jeans, he’s holding up his mobile in Sherlock and John’s direction. John flips him off and Lestrade just rolls his eyes.

“Say Happy Christmas Sherlock!” Lestrade calls out loudly.

Sherlock just scowls at him.

Mrs. Hudson is wearing a short and fancy cream coloured dress, holding a large covered roasting pan, and she is positively beaming; really it’s worth wearing these things if it means seeing her smile like that.

She is the first to speak.

“Oh boys! You look wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson trills happily.

Sherlock scoffs, but seems to smile reluctantly in her direction.

Mycroft glances at Lestrade, who just clicked his phone shut. “You have given me an idea Inspector.” Mycroft pulls out his phone and before Sherlock can stop him, he snaps a photo of Sherlock and John. Sherlock looks horrified, John is laughing behind his hand; mostly in response to Sherlock’s reaction. “This could possibly come in handy some day, don’t you agree Sherlock?” Mycroft smiles, clearly smug.

“Oh shut up. I _will_ murder you Mycroft.” Sherlock narrows his eyes.

Mycroft doesn’t look at all worried by the threat. Sherlock moves to walk forward, probably to destroy Mycroft’s phone, but John reaches out and stops him with a resting hand to Sherlock’s arm.

“I don’t know about you lot, but I’m starving. So now that we’re all here, how about we eat?” John says with a smile and a nod.

Everyone makes various gestures and noises of agreement and the party begins to move further into the flat. All of them place their gifts under the tree.

“Everything smells so lovely, especially that turkey!” Molly says. She looks quite happy.

“Thank-you dear.” Mrs. Hudson beams her smile even brighter and she sets down the pan in the middle of the table; she takes off the lid and reveals a beautifully cooked turkey.

Mycroft takes a seat near the end of the table, surveying the flat with mild interest and the food with appetite.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson sit down next to each other; Lestrade sits directly across from Molly.

“It really does look wonderful Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade smiles at her.

Mrs. Hudson blushes.

“Oh you’re all too kind!”

John, jingly antlers and all, walks into the kitchen and slips on his oven mitts. He then proceeds to open the oven and pull out the three side dishes one by one and set them on the table. He then takes off the lids of each; roasted potatoes, parsnips and brussel sprouts. Sherlock had visibly cringed and refused to be part of any cooking enterprise that involved being anywhere _near_ brussel sprouts. So John cooked them himself, knowing that he and others liked them. Sherlock did at least help with the parsnips. Later they’ll be having Christmas pudding, which Mrs. Hudson also offered to make.

“This appears to be a rather delicious meal you’ve prepared.” Mycroft’s says, tucking in his napkin under his chin.

John nods his thanks and walks over to the fridge to grab the bowl of cranberry sauce.

“Agreed.” Lestrade smiles heartily as John sets down the cranberry sauce. “So...did Sherlock make any of this?” Lestrade gives the food a dubious once over.

There are various, good-natured giggles from around the table

“He was well supervised I assure you.” John teases.

Lestrade laughs and opens the bottle of wine that John had placed on the table before everyone arrived; proceeding to pour for those who wanted some of the deep red, velvet liquid.

The thought of Sherlock causes John to notice that Sherlock isn’t at the table. _Where did he go?_

John looks around and spots Sherlock standing over by the tree, facing away from everyone and still very much wearing the antlers. John looks at him curiously.

“Tuck in everyone, my fellow reindeer and I will be joining you shortly.” John gives everyone a smile before exiting the kitchen and walking towards Sherlock; the beginnings of dinner conversation sound from behind him.

John walks up to stand beside Sherlock and notices the contemplative expression on his face.

“I was following a member of Moriarty’s web in New York City last Christmas, disguising myself as a homeless man. I had been sitting against a brick wall, and waiting for the man I’d been following to exit out of one of the buildings across the street from my position. While waiting, I was carrying on a rather intriguing conversation with a man sitting next to me, he used to be a chemist. What I was really focusing on though, was the vulgar tree lit in a shop window across the street. For a brief moment, I allowed myself a moment of indulgence and thought about the tiring frivolity and absurdity of Christmas at home. I rarely allowed myself to think of what was truly home to me, but in that moment I did. I had no idea then that I would be able to return home in a few months, or that I would be standing here next Christmas, spending it in 221b again. It is...an odd feeling.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, continuing to look at the tree.

“I am not entirely immune to the significance you all seem to feel for this particular Christmas, I don’t deny it isn’t as important to me – or probably Mycroft – as it is to the rest of you. However, when thinking about the events of last month...” Sherlock tenses briefly at the mention; John reaches up and rests a hand on his shoulder. “I find myself actually feeling relief and gratitude, something I never felt before when spending Christmas with you average minds.” Sherlock adds with a smile.

“Oi!” John gives Sherlock a playful punch.

Sherlock laughs quietly.

“Well, I have exhausted my emotionally nostalgic tirade for the day.” Sherlock says in a bored monotone. John snorts. “Although...here.” Sherlock reaches out and pulls what had been a well hidden envelope out from behind a Christmas tree branch.

John’s brow creases with curiosity as he watches Sherlock hold out the envelope to John.

“What’s this?” John asks, taking the envelope and noting Sherlock’s lips quirking into a small smile.

“A very old Holmes tradition. We used the hide the smallest gifts we were to give to others on our tree, we stopped doing it when I was a teenager.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

John smiles and examines the envelope; his name has been carefully written in elegant script across the front. He flips it around. Seeing that it isn’t sealed, John simply opens the flap and takes out the folded slip of paper he finds there.

He can feel that skin piercing gaze of Sherlock’s watching him closely as he unfolds the paper.

John smiles a little, but doesn’t say anything. The sounds of talking, laughter and utensils clanging against plates echo loudly from the kitchen.

 John’s brow furrows as he looks over the nonsense group of eight words on the slip of paper.

“It’s an anagram.” 

John glances up at Sherlock sharply, not surprised to see Sherlock is looking at John as though he’s being terribly slow.

“Obviously.” John says, in a mocking Sherlock tone.

It’s definitely...an unusual gift; a little mystery, a puzzle for John to figure out and just plain bizarre. _A very Sherlockian gift._

Sherlock smiles.

“Oi! What are you two doing over there? All the food will be gone soon.” Lestrade calls out loudly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the motion combined with the antlers making John laugh aloud. Sherlock attempts a disgruntled look at John, but that fails as Sherlock takes in the sight of John laughing; which causes the antlers to jingle loudly.

“We better go. Thank-you Sherlock. Do you think I’ll figure it out? Or will you just end up telling me?” John asks with an amused smile.

 He and Sherlock make their way over to their peculiar group in the kitchen.

“You’ll likely figure it out, eventually. You’ll have to, if you wish to know what it means. If you don’t, it’ll remain a mystery because I’m most assuredly not going to tell you the solution.” Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile.

The talking continues around them; Molly chatting with Lestrade about an author the two of them both enjoy, and Mrs. Hudson carrying on a conversation with Mycroft of all people. Sherlock and John seat themselves beside each other, seamlessly fitting into the group.

They’re an odd tableau. A powerful man who works a “minor” position in the British government, a motherly landlady, a pathologist who wouldn’t hurt a fly, a DI who maintains incredible patience even after knowing Sherlock for years, and of course, the Consulting Detective himself, only one in the world, the Ex-Army Doctor that lives with him willingly, and they’re both currently wearing identical sets of antlers covered in small jingle bells.

...Perhaps odd is too mild a term.

                            

 

_Nova Fleet Fey Yule Hi Ho Mojo Root_

 

 

 

~ The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end! :) Thank-you very much for reading it! I hope it was enjoyable :)


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